To my friend next door,
Please stop playing your salsa music at 7 a.m. It is always fun, but it is less fun when you have a cold, headache, and a puppy who loves to sing along with your beat. Since you have managed to avoid the police so gracefully for the past 3 years, I cannot call 311 anymore as they think I am the crazy lady who dislikes a little salsa with her coffee. I must confess, sweet friend, that your music is so loud my downstairs neighbors have knocked on my door twice this morning asking me to turn it down. Oh, if I could. You are in the next building. And refuse to answer the buzzer when Chris and I come knocking (screaming, crying, shouting).
Should we ever move out of this apartment, I will most likely sit at my new (suburban) (Pottery Barn) kitchen table, wistfully remembering the days of my twenties when I sat cursing Gloria Estefan and my beloved Ricky Martin. And should we never move…should we (in ten years) have a (well behaved) (dimpled) baby in this apartment, and you wake that child up…I will crawl across the fire escape that links our two buildings and break the windows and barge in on you as you play Halo and listen to Enrique and then you will know the full scope of what I have had to endure.
When I say “I”, I will speak for all of our roommates and boyfriends and stupified house guests.
You are a man among men. You are in your mid-to-late thirties, only wear white tank tops, and live with your 80-something-year old mother. Whom you also subject to very loud salsa and Halo at all hours of the night. Once, your video game was so loud, Harley and I hid under the kitchen table because we thought there was some kind of home invasion occuring. I’m sure your aging mother rests peacefully knowing you are on the job.
I hate you.