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Thank you for your kind note on my door this morning. It was a thrill to leave my house at the crack of ungodly and find your beautiful note, written in that flowery European trill of a handwriting you've so fastidiously cultivated. All sugar coating on a letter reeking of vitriol and bile.
I haven't figured out which of the eight of you on my floor it is, but I have a pretty good idea.
Your note complained about the "slamming" of cabinet doors in my kitchen. For which I apologize. In this old building, there is no way to close those doors without some degree of sound being produced. I live alone. There is no lover's-spat-related slamming that goes on. I'll try to be more careful.
Now that that apology is out of the way, a few things.
1. Anonymous notes? Yeah...they're pretty cowardly (unless they're accompanied by a box of chocolates, of course. That changes things). You have an idea who might be causing that horrific slamming noise you heard. But me? I'm pretty much the recipient of a one-way conversation.
2. Come to think of it, you had a note on my door, the DAY after i moved in. It started, "Welcome, new neighbor." And then it complained about--surprise!--slamming doors. One day! Impatient, are we? This note was anonymous, too. I sense a pattern. Is this how you relate with men?
3. If this IS who I think it is, you antisocial french girl and your crazy boyfriend who live right next to me, then PLEASE. Be careful when you're rut-rutting in your little apartment. If the walls are thin enough for you to hear my slamming, they're thin enough for me to hear you getting slammed. There's nothing less appetizing than eating a nice dinner of pasta with vodka sauce and a little bit of icewine, and having it ruined with images of exactly what's causing the moans, shrieks, wails, and splashes I can hear just opposite my walls. Really. I wish I could admit to a prurient titillation from hearing this. But I can't. Not with the two of you.
3. This goes for your gawdawful music too. I'm sorry that you've been inculcated with the north american doctrine of music-by-committee, but R&B has little original R in it these days, and MUCH less B. The same is true with hip-hop, which is neither hip nor particularly hopping. But, hey. That's just my taste in music. I don't subject you to Kenna or Death Cab or any of those others...I recognize that my tastes may not be yours and so I listen to my iPod. So please, don't force me to hear K-Fed or Justin or any of those crass sycophants.
4. But that leads me to my next point. YOU LIVE IN A FUCKING APARTMENT! This means that your neighbor is across a very thin and not sex-proof or slam-proof wall. This means you probably know when I've visited Blockbuster, and you know when I have a date over, and you know when I wake up in the morning. And I know the same about you. You gave up a modicum of privacy when you decided to live in the heart of this small city of ours. Deal with it. You can't have it both ways (well, unless that's what you and your boyfriend are doing). If you want your yarded, picket-fenced, home-depoted privacy, get your litte ass out to Oakville, OK?
You know...on second thought. Maybe I won't stop slamming the cabinet doors. Unless, of course, I get some anonymous chocolates.
You know where to find me.
With MUCH love and tenderness,