Round One: Squabble!

My upstairs neighbors had a fight the other night. She went stomping up the stairs and flung the door open. I couldn’t quite hear what was going on, but she was pissed at the guy for some reason and yelled for about ten minutes. She then stomped back out and drove off. I continued watching cartoons.

She came back about twenty minutes later and stomped back up the stairs. This time there was more prolonged shouting and some jumping up and/or down, as they made the ceiling shake. After about ten minutes of this, she left again, leaving the guy sobbing.

I happened to use the bathroom at that point and discovered a fun fact: you can hear what’s going on upstairs really, really well in the bathroom. He was sobbing and kept repeating ‘What am I going to do?’ I’m not sure if he was talking to someone or just in hysterics, but I made a mental note to not say anything incriminating loudly in the bathroom, just in case they could hear me as well as I could hear them.

And that was it. Maybe twenty minutes total arguing with another ten or so of sobbing.

In all honesty, the level of fighting that has been going on at this apartment complex has been really, really bad. I would give the one the other night a 4 out of 10 at best, just because she stomped really well.

As a long-time apartment dweller, I have come to recognize the artistry involved in a really good fight.  There’s a certain commitment needed to truly scream that someone is a ‘filthy whore’ at 3 in the morning.  Even the relatively simple act of slamming an apartment door has its intricacies. Do you go for the big wham or the more subtle ‘shut the door softly, but in a way that makes the whole building shake?’ 

Seriously, these people need some lessons or something. Back at my old complex this wouldn’t have even registered over the screaming and sirens. Where was the crashing of lamps? The breaking of furniture? The anguished wails? The intricate melody of two people screaming at each other in a language I don’t understand?

I guess my point is that if you’re going to disturb your neighbors with a fight at least make it interesting.  Scream, holler, break stuff. And when you run screaming into the night, do it in your underwear. Basically, give me something to tell the guys at work about or just don’t bother.

As a rule of thumb: if the SWAT team shows up, you’re doing it right.

Cheers,

-Jason

All Alone

So, I haven’t updated in a couple weeks and I apologize for that. It’s just that I’ve had a major upheaval in my personal life and I had to spend some time dealing with it. After many years, I’ve suddenly found myself alone.

I mean, I thought things were going great. Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but I thought it was good. I was always there. At least, I thought I was. I always made time. Perhaps, in hindsight, not enough. I admit that I took it for granted, that I thought it would last forever.

Forever did not turn out quite as long as I thought.

 So here I am, sitting alone in my apartment, drinking a coke. There are cobwebs on the swords. My mace is dusty. The cobra’s getting fat, the traps are rusty, and I’m listening to Johnny Cash because that’s what you do, isn’t it?

I guess I just have to face it.

The ninjas are gone.

They left a note, a very nice note, explaining that though it had been fun, the contract was over and they were moving on. Something about a guy in Chicago and a bonus for making it look like an accident. And they were very sorry, so very sorry, to leave like this. If, by some chance, they found themselves in my neck of the woods, they’d swing by and attempt a disemboweling, just for old time’s sake. And they wished me the best, the very best, and hoped that the next time I chased someone across a rooftop with a guan-dao while wearing monkey slippers and leiderhosen, I’d think of them.

It’s been hard, I admit. As often as I cursed them, made snide remarks and blogs about them, I do miss them. They were a constant, y’know? A dangerous, often venomous, constant. Sure there were swords involved. Sure they once tried to strangle me when I was on the potty. It was all part and parcel.

Yet, in a strange way, they cared. They thought about me a lot. They knew my habits, my likes and dislikes. What I ate in the morning, when I went to sleep, and where I hid my brass knuckles. It was a violent, bloody caring, but in lieu of anything else, it was something.

And now they’re gone.

Oh, I’ve tried to cope, but the mundane world offers little when you’re typical Tuesday consisted of fighting eleven armed men with a rubber chicken filled with buckshot while simultaneously keeping an eye on your chicken in the microwave.

So, yeah. I miss them. They were a danger that became a nuisance that became a habit. It was its own special specialness. 

And, in all honesty, I just bought 100-gallons of napalm and I have no idea what to do with it now.

Oh well, summer’s coming up. Maybe I can figure out a way to bbq with it.

Cheers,

-Jason