Dear human,
I couldn't help but notice that you have been playing the same song on a loop for over a week. And not even the same song, but the same section of the same song. And while I find it admirable and a bit odd that it's a gospel song (not to besmirch your taste, but its a bit unusual considering your profession, recreational activities, and loud domestic disputes in the past) I would like to suggest that you expand your playlist beyond this fairly mediocre track of a singer doing trills and scatting scale runs.
Now I know: this song probably has some emotionally significant meaning that's also probably very beautiful and cinematically poetic with drug-induced flashbacks etc. But you can have new experiences and attach new songs to them. It's all a part of breaking a cycle and avoiding the danger of literally and metaphorically playing the same sad song again and again.
There are some lovely gospel hits in the American canon that have actual words in them. "Balm in Gilead" "His Eye is On the Sparrow." We Shall Overcome." Freaking "This Little Light of Mine." Isn't it time you let another song shine? Feel free to consult me or any of your neighbors. We are happy to help you explore the great American songbook.
I would be amiss if I didn't give you some some credit. When this monotonous song is playing there is a clear absence of pot-smoke and its strong musky scent which covers the surrounding buildings. Perhaps this musical passage keeps you clean? Or maybe the song takes your mind off what you do and what you ingest in your body. I don't know but it's a remarkable transformation. There isn't even any yelling or arguments when this song is on. Yet, I think a peaceful life is possible with other tunes, or even my favorite form of music: silence.
Now I know these are difficult times. Your abused wife or girlfriend is pregnant (presumably with your child). She looks like she's entering the end of her second trimester or the beginning of the last one. The arguments have thankfully stopped. Don't think for a moment that we, your neighbors, aren't grateful for the respite. Furthermore, don't think many have expressed disgust at your behavior and called the cops. Fortunately for you the cops are so inept that domestic violence can go largely unchecked. It also helps that your partner is co-dependent and a classic case of a woman with an abusive-wife syndrome. Your youth, good-looks, and dangerous virility that women mistake for sexy has served you well. Many a times, have women -unprompted- remarked about your looks and mean-spirited attitude with lustful looks. But youth is fleeting, looks fade, and what was dangerous virility becomes nasty and mean in old age. Drugs don't help the issue.
Yet the pot smoke is troubling. I don't know if you're aware of this but smoke can be harmful to developing fetuses. As a father, you might want to consider the welfare of your child when smoking pot. It may even cross your mind as you're dealing drugs (or not).
Dear sir, this is not to degrade you. In fact, I co-sign on your humanity. You are, indeed, a human. I presume that you get up every day not wanting to be a complete fuck up. I mean, no one wakes up thinking 'how can I be a complete fucking idiot today,' right? And yet, here we are. In Fucksville, NY. A lovely bucolic town in Dipshit Stupid County. You smoke pot, you deal drugs, you have a pregnant girlfriend/wife whom you abuse. You recently had a break-in and lost several hundred dollars from your stash. Granted, it was probably drug money and it was probably a jealous friend or client who ripped you off because they knew the exact time you would be out of the house cause you weren't playing that incessant music. Still it must have been tough: I mean, if you can't turn your back on your drug-using clients and cohorts, who can you trust?
When you came to me that day after you were burglarized you had an anguished look in your eyes. I could feel your humanity. Despite being on the city council with you in Fucksville, NY I could see that pain is pain. For all people and regardless of where they live and what they do, suffering is still painful and unnecessary.
As a Buddhist I root for you. As a judgmental resident in this lovely town, I want you in jail. As a person concerned with efficiency of our criminal justice system, I want to see you back in school learning a skill and in therapy for anger management. There are so many thoughts I have about you, that it's best to stick to one thing: your music.
Rest assure that we, the residents of this town, have our flaws. But flaunting them in public will only be tolerated indefinitely. Like a subway break dancer who has stayed in the same car too long or a mariachi band that can't play an abbreviated version of "Guantanamera" for gringos, there will be a point when you exhaust our patience. If that time should ever come, then you will have another problem to add to your poo poo platter of chaos, drugs, and bad music.
Sincerely,
Guy on the 1st Floor who, thankfully, has a buffer apartment between us.
I couldn't help but notice that you have been playing the same song on a loop for over a week. And not even the same song, but the same section of the same song. And while I find it admirable and a bit odd that it's a gospel song (not to besmirch your taste, but its a bit unusual considering your profession, recreational activities, and loud domestic disputes in the past) I would like to suggest that you expand your playlist beyond this fairly mediocre track of a singer doing trills and scatting scale runs.
Now I know: this song probably has some emotionally significant meaning that's also probably very beautiful and cinematically poetic with drug-induced flashbacks etc. But you can have new experiences and attach new songs to them. It's all a part of breaking a cycle and avoiding the danger of literally and metaphorically playing the same sad song again and again.
There are some lovely gospel hits in the American canon that have actual words in them. "Balm in Gilead" "His Eye is On the Sparrow." We Shall Overcome." Freaking "This Little Light of Mine." Isn't it time you let another song shine? Feel free to consult me or any of your neighbors. We are happy to help you explore the great American songbook.
I would be amiss if I didn't give you some some credit. When this monotonous song is playing there is a clear absence of pot-smoke and its strong musky scent which covers the surrounding buildings. Perhaps this musical passage keeps you clean? Or maybe the song takes your mind off what you do and what you ingest in your body. I don't know but it's a remarkable transformation. There isn't even any yelling or arguments when this song is on. Yet, I think a peaceful life is possible with other tunes, or even my favorite form of music: silence.
Now I know these are difficult times. Your abused wife or girlfriend is pregnant (presumably with your child). She looks like she's entering the end of her second trimester or the beginning of the last one. The arguments have thankfully stopped. Don't think for a moment that we, your neighbors, aren't grateful for the respite. Furthermore, don't think many have expressed disgust at your behavior and called the cops. Fortunately for you the cops are so inept that domestic violence can go largely unchecked. It also helps that your partner is co-dependent and a classic case of a woman with an abusive-wife syndrome. Your youth, good-looks, and dangerous virility that women mistake for sexy has served you well. Many a times, have women -unprompted- remarked about your looks and mean-spirited attitude with lustful looks. But youth is fleeting, looks fade, and what was dangerous virility becomes nasty and mean in old age. Drugs don't help the issue.
Yet the pot smoke is troubling. I don't know if you're aware of this but smoke can be harmful to developing fetuses. As a father, you might want to consider the welfare of your child when smoking pot. It may even cross your mind as you're dealing drugs (or not).
Dear sir, this is not to degrade you. In fact, I co-sign on your humanity. You are, indeed, a human. I presume that you get up every day not wanting to be a complete fuck up. I mean, no one wakes up thinking 'how can I be a complete fucking idiot today,' right? And yet, here we are. In Fucksville, NY. A lovely bucolic town in Dipshit Stupid County. You smoke pot, you deal drugs, you have a pregnant girlfriend/wife whom you abuse. You recently had a break-in and lost several hundred dollars from your stash. Granted, it was probably drug money and it was probably a jealous friend or client who ripped you off because they knew the exact time you would be out of the house cause you weren't playing that incessant music. Still it must have been tough: I mean, if you can't turn your back on your drug-using clients and cohorts, who can you trust?
When you came to me that day after you were burglarized you had an anguished look in your eyes. I could feel your humanity. Despite being on the city council with you in Fucksville, NY I could see that pain is pain. For all people and regardless of where they live and what they do, suffering is still painful and unnecessary.
As a Buddhist I root for you. As a judgmental resident in this lovely town, I want you in jail. As a person concerned with efficiency of our criminal justice system, I want to see you back in school learning a skill and in therapy for anger management. There are so many thoughts I have about you, that it's best to stick to one thing: your music.
Rest assure that we, the residents of this town, have our flaws. But flaunting them in public will only be tolerated indefinitely. Like a subway break dancer who has stayed in the same car too long or a mariachi band that can't play an abbreviated version of "Guantanamera" for gringos, there will be a point when you exhaust our patience. If that time should ever come, then you will have another problem to add to your poo poo platter of chaos, drugs, and bad music.
Sincerely,
Guy on the 1st Floor who, thankfully, has a buffer apartment between us.
1 comment:
This could be my story. Things got better in my complex, but unrelenting noisy neighbors + domestic violence made me understand suburban flight in a whole different way.
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