Citing The Reasons Why My Neighbors Probably Hate Me

Citing The Reasons Why My Neighbors Probably Hate Me

I can count on one hand how many interactions I’ve had with my neighbors. I met Lindsey, my downstairs neighbor, over the summer when we both got back from a run at the same time, and met her fiancé about a minute later after I made a joke about us finishing at the same time. I met my neighbor from across the hall in December when her heat was broken and it was 46 degrees in her apartment. I don’t remember her name, mostly because I just gave her the name and number of the repair guy and passive aggressively rushed her out. Look, I was cooking dinner and my veggies were going to burn. There’s a definitive balance between being kind and knowing that you have more important shit going on, so I’m sorry if I was able to recognize it before she was.

Needless to say, I’m not exactly the most popular guy in my apartment building, which sucks because I’m pretty sure I’m the only guy in my whole building. Seriously, there are only five apartments in the building and my roommate is a woman. Holy shit. I’ve lived here since May. I can’t believe I never realized that.

Anyway, my lifestyle has always been relatively problematic—especially when the walls and floorboards are thin. Maybe it’s genetics, maybe it’s my lack of self-control. Either way, I’m a generally loud person, which, in combination with my transparency for anything personal and general love for shenanigans, makes for a horrible living experience. Not sure what I mean? Let me cite some events from the last few days that could clarify.

Attempting to enter my apartment at 3:45 a.m. on Sunday morning.

I don’t live in a full-on high-rise apartment building. I live in a town home that was converted into several different living spaces for several different tenants. So essentially, to get to my apartment, you have to walk up a flight of stairs that offers the option of Lindsey on the first floor and myself on the second. It’s a tight spiral staircase with a heavy echo, which only gets worse as the night goes on.

So, when I spent the Saturday night drinking more cocktails than I could count and hitting up a 4 a.m. bar only to put two bucks into the jukebox because I needed to hear “Say It Ain’t So” by Weezer, the only possible way for me to fall (literally) into my bed was to hit every wall and stumble on half of the stairs on the way up. Sorry, Lindsey. You deserve better than that.

Getting unreasonably irate with my pizza delivery guy on Sunday night.

My Sunday night ritual is ordering delivery food and drinking an entire bottle of wine while watching some indie movie on Netflix and simultaneously streaming whatever NFL game is on. I do this almost every Sunday in an attempt to make my Scaries more tolerable. Sometimes I cook my own dinner, sometimes I meet someone out, and then there are times when the pizza delivery guy DRIVES DOWN THE ALLEY NEXT TO MY PLACE THREE TIMES, DESPITE MY STANDING ON THE STOOP WAVING HIM DOWN. Like, dude, if you haven’t hit my address yet, just drive a few feet further and I bet this whole experience would be a lot more seamless.

Playing music at absurdly high volumes on weeknights.

Since my company is paranoid about privacy, I don’t really get an opportunity to write columns on the job. Instead, I like to make myself one or two or five Old Fashioned’s whenever I get home and pump out some content. Since I can’t focus in absolute silence, I tend to play my music way too loud to distract me from the fact that I’m alone (Note: My roommate is out of town a lot, either on business or visiting her boyfriend a few states away).

For example, at the time I’m writing this, it’s 12:11 a.m., and I’m rocking the album “On The Impossible Past” by The Menzingers. There’s nothing refined about it, it’s just straight up blue collar punk rock. But I just realized that I’m at 75 percent volume in an otherwise silent apartment. That, paired with the boots that I haven’t taken off yet that echo whenever I get up to make myself another drink…let’s just say that if I had a big day tomorrow, I would be furious with me as a neighbor.

Am I in the wrong? Of course, I am. But, you know what? I’m working from home today for the first time ever (seriously), so I think I’m going to milk the hell out of it. If nobody’s brought up the problem yet, it must not be that important, right?

I guess the only thing left to do is wait for someone to complain, so I suggest you do that soon, Lindsey From Downstairs or Stranger From Across The Hall. Otherwise, I’ll be the worst neighbor in recent memory and will remain stagnant in my ways forever. Your move.

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Using sarcasm as a defense mechanism since 1993. At any given moment I'm either tired, drunk, or stressed out. Get at me at or whatever.

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