Sunday, October 31, 2010

I complain on Sundays...

A gaggle of gripes to satiate your craving for the bitter within me... Don't act like you're not excited...



I'm a renter.

I've been a renter for 13 years.

The mere mention of owning a house causes my asthma to flare... and I don't have asthma.

The permanence of it all, the commitment, the responsibility, the weight... it's suffocating. Home ownership is like an open flame to my fragile wings.



That said, renting is shit.

For so many reasons.

The noise, the inability to make noise, the smell of someone else in my home, the landlords that fail at everything, the monthly stack of cash that may as well be set ablaze, the overwhelming realization that when your father tells you that "you're an adult" and "you don't have a pot to piss in", he's right.



But the single worst thing about being a renter... the coup de grace... is the sex.

Certainly not the sex I'm having... or not having as it were. Rather the All Night Hump-Fest that congregates in the room directly above my once quiet, cozy, innocently sterile bed on a nightly basis. Or thrice nightly basis.

Listen, I am not a hater... I am a renter. And with that comes a responsibility.

I fully comprehend the reality of the situation. We are, in essence, strangers sharing a home. And while we have our own compartments, we are but co-inhabitants of the same dwelling.

I know that this is not all mine. I know that I do not make the rules. I know that these folks pay a substantial amount of money to keep this roof over their heads, just like me. And I understand that the act of love making is a natural and beautiful thing. In fact, I applaud the gentleman for lasting as long as he does... I am not a hater.

I am, however, a gal that needs some sleep. And the fuck factory upstairs is chronically preventing that from happening.



So to you, Upstairs Banes o' My Existence, I offer a few wee suggestions that might prevent me from setting you both on fire...

  1. Spring for some WD-40
  2. Get kinky with a Ball-Gag-For-Her
  3. Go buy a NEW fuckin' BED (pun-intended)      
  4. Hump on the kitchen counter/in the shower/at a reasonable hour
  5. Move
  6. Live on the ground floor
  7. Break up
  8. Eat shit
  9. Die
  10. Substitute my bottle of sleeping pills with a bottle of ruffies... or horse tranquilizers... or cyanide...

Any or all will suffice.


And also, God speed to you both and your healthy sexual appetite. May you never live to see the day that I find anti-gravity boots and pay it forward...

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