Burned in my brain - Pt III

Okay, so I now know that my neighbor is not just one but two men, who happen to be in a relationship. They're loud, play the same Rhianna song endless times with bass that must be up to 11, and like to put together furniture at midnight. Drop some bolts and a hammer on your hardwood every other minute, and you'll get an idea of what hell I was put through one night this week.

They can get their own muffins.

On another note, I do have a new neighbor of sorts (first time I've ever seen him), who lives on the 5th floor. We'll call him Curly Joe. My gal pal who also lives here just gave me the skinny - he's single, two kids, pharmaceutical rep, plays the violin, couldn't find his car for a week, and likes his liquour (probably the reason for the missing car). I think I would like to live next to him, as he's never here due to extensive travel, and probably doesn't blast the bass.

Curly Joe looks like this, but with fashionable non-metro glasses.

Burned In My Brain...Pt II

Update: Apparently, the Trolls are no longer living next door.

I talked to the building manager, who gave me the scoop. He said that a new neighbor moved in a couple weekends ago (guess I was gone when the move went down).

I don't know anything more than that (right to privacy and all), but I think he probably looks a lot like this.

SO dear readers (if there are any), looks like the gross-out factor possibly has been removed from the situation.

I should be a kind neighbor and take him some muffins, don't you think?

Burned In My Brain...

I just heard the neighbors hittin' it. Hard.

Wanna know how? Because it sounded like someone was attempting to break on through to the other side.

I thought this loft was pretty darn soundproof. Guess not.

Grody.

I wouldn't normally say anything negative about getting a little "sumpin' sumpin'". It's healthy (as a former friend used to say, quite often). Outstanding.

But dear me, if you knew my neighbors, you might even use more colorful language.

They're not nice people. They're weird. They have a monster dog that they cannot control that wants to eat my dog. And they're not pleasant to look at (toothpaste, anyone?). Truth? They're like trolls out of a Grimm fairy tale. Swear.

So, the knocking, accompanied by the high-decibal verbalization that somehow permeated the plaster dividing our living spaces, has left an imprint on my psyche that I'm attempting to expel.

At this point, I see two options. I either retaliate in kind, or hit the bottle.

Looks like I'm out of vodka.