Not that anyone tuning in isn’t already as sick of me complaining about my butthead neighbors as I am, and not that everyone isn’t probably just as turned off by my recent rant-ish posts, but, nonetheless, here I am, taking on another good rant (hopefully only once more). I apparently find it necessary to share the misery I am enduring and post the fact that the butthead neighbor’s kid is playing ball in the living room on the hardwood floor again. So, no, my butthead neighbors have not yet gotten the promised carpet/dry walls their aunt, the even butthead-er property manager, assured me was to come.
Oh, and thankfully my butthead neighbor’s door is also open, so I can hear the intermittent screams and squeals between thumps and bounces that are being prodded on and awarded by said butthead neighbor parents. Please know, I am not a monster. I get that kids need to be kids. They need to play, and jump, and run, and… I get it. But when you are egging your kid on, to bounce a ball in the living room of your apartment next to the biach (as they call me) that has asked you to keep the noise to a minimum, or at least try, well… Shit. I am really at a loss here. It only looks a little obvious it’s on purpose at this point.
By the way, I’ve only posted this blog as a precautionary method, so everyone knows where to find my dead body. This way, if I don’t show up for work tomorrow, or I stop taking all my personal calls, everyone will know that it’s because I’ve gone crazy and shoved my head in a blender.
Goodbye beautiful word. I just couldn’t take the noise anymore.
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