The woman who lives downstairs from me sucks. And I'll tell you why.
Mostly, it's because she seems to have some kind of hyper-dramatic relationship with her boyfriend.
She's NEVER THERE. I mean almost never. My guess is that she is in a de-facto living situation with this shithead, and the only times she's actually in her apartment are when they are having a spat. On these occasions a very obvious pattern emerges. She comes home, slams her door, and can be heard screaming obscenities into her cellular telephone. The word "fuck" is used in ways it was never intended, and it makes me think that her parents probably wasted an outrageous amount of money on her alleged education.
The phone conversation stops and she starts playing "music."
I use quotation marks because, while I can't really tell what she's listening to, it's obvious the bands she favors are operating under the mistaken impression that the bass guitar is an appropriate melody instrument. Which it is not.
Listening to shitty music for an hour must be her catharsis, because that ends and another loud phone conversation begins. Five minutes of this, and the door slams and she's gone.
All is quiet now. She must have gone back to his place. Call me a lousy person, but I hope a murder/suicide pact is in their near future.
Dig: I have electric guitars, amplifiers, a CASIO CZ-1000 synthesizer, harmonicas, a Schylling hand organ and a potentially VERY LOUD stereo with hundreds of records. And I'll bet she's never heard much out of me.
That's because I understand apartment living.
Once again, the woman who lives downstairs from me sucks.