I left my house 10 minutes early this morning only to arrive at work 15 minutes late. Traffic was brutal for no other reason, it would seem, than simply because it was Thursday.
I'm sorry to say, the day slid slowly down a greased hill from there.
And I was just sitting here, finally eating something since breakfast, thinking to myself, "Well, the good thing about Thursdays is that they end and I can go to bed soon," when the Thursday OONTZ started up.
What's a Thursday OONTZ, you ask?
You see, I have a lovely upstairs neighbor, Abram, who has lived in this building for more than a decade. Unfortunately, Abram always needs a roommate and he cycles through them about once a year. My favorites may have been the 20-something lesbian couple who loved to sit out on the balcony right outside my bedroom window late on summer nights and boo hoo about how they were getting SO OLD and life had slipped through their fingers before they'd really had a chance to live. LIVE! Oh the humanity!
But now we've got Doug. Doug Raves. I don't know if Doug Raves is his actual name but it is the name of his wireless network and somebody should totally hack that shit and bring him down. Because I loathe Doug and his raving.
Because. Every Thursday night, without fail, about the time I'm thinking I ought to curl up in my bed with a book and a cold compress for my throbbing head, hoping to end another forsaken couldn't-get-the-hang-of-it-Thursday in peace, Doug Raves puts on the same 8-song playlist, turns it way up so that my bedroom becomes a thumping OONTZ OONTZ OONTZ'ing disco...and then? Then he leaves. The. Building.
Frankly, he is sending me right over the edge - an edge I cling to desperately during the best of times.
If he knew what was good for him, he'd rave himself right on outta this neighborhood. Otherwise, I cannot be held accountable for my perimenopausal actions.