: decisions, decisions :

The decision, I’m afraid, will be made for me. By a property manager. Normally not the kind of person you want determining your fate, but what can you do? I rent. It sucks.

This is me tilting at windmills, something I can’t stop doing. Once the gauntlet is thrown I’m on it like found money. Same thing with dares, no matter how stoopid, no matter how reckless, I take them cheerfully. Good thing Jackass wasn’t around back in the day — otherwise you’d be staring at a blank page and wondering why.

Getting back to the point, the feud with my upstairs neighbor proceeds apace. After four nerve-wracking years the property owners have done nothing to curb the noise above me. So I submitted a somewhat pointed letter expressing my displeasure with their passive approach to the rules regarding behavior and consequences.

Long story short, eviction is a possibility. Continued nonintervention is a likelier possibility. And me jumping off the roof can’t be ruled out. While I await their final ruling, I came up with a list of things I’d rather hear than the unrelenting screams of abused, overstressed furniture:

I have too much time on my hands. Time that would be better spent pursuing constructive, helpful activities, but no. I sit around thinking of kazoo bands and leaf blowers, instead. Come to think of it, maybe my neighbor is karma for being a lazy, shiftless slacker. Uh-oh, that’s not good.

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