Someone is moving in upstairs and giving the Stormtroopers a run for their money. I mean, yes, it’s just moving in noise, but a couple of times I have thought that these people may not be satisfied until their furniture goes through the floor and then is resting in a dusty heap in my living room.
I had the thought that I should go upstairs and introduce myself, but managed to talk myself out of it. I never actually met the Stormtroopers – but then, by the time I could have introduced myself I was unwittingly privy to some of their most … ahem … intimate secrets and exchanges due to their propensity for discussing them on the balcony, and then I was just embarrassed.
It might be better if I don’t introduce myself, though, given my own tendencies to wander around the house singing. You name it, I’ll belt it out: show tunes, country songs, country songs sung as though they were show tunes (and vice versa), pop, rock, folk; I like to sing. It has come to my realization that if I can hear the other people in the building, then they can probably hear me.
It might be best if no one ever connects the me that is walking through the halls with that girl who was belting out “Only The Good Die Young” on Tuesday afternoon.
I’m just saying.
I could bypass all of this neighbor stuff by owning a house. Except, of course, for the fact that I am precisely the kind of person who can’t own a house. I’ve OWNED a house, back when I was lawfully wed, and it was … how to say it?
SO FREAKING STRESSFUL.
Because of all of the STUFF.
What stuff? The flooding basements (hi, Spring! Thanks for filling my basement with WATER THAT’S AWESOME) and the pipes and the walls and the siding and the LAWN and the forty gazillion things that need attention, time, and love when you own a house. Oh, and you know what else all of those things demand? Cash, that’s what.
It’s not that I’m irresponsible. It’s that I have major anxiety. And if I tried to be a homeowner all on my ownsome, I would have a panic induced heart attack. And die. NO ONE WANTS THAT.
So instead, I’ll deal with the Stormtroopers and the balcony conversations and the risk that someone’s going to bust me singing Taylor Swift songs really loudly while I wash the floor. It’s worth it. Because if furniture actually DOES crash through the ceiling and land in my living room?
I just have to call the landlord.