four more blocks, plus the one in my brain

Topic: Elliott Smith was the Kafka of suicidal understated heartwrenching singer/songwriters*


My upstairs neighbor keeps playing “Needle in the Hay” by Elliott Smith at a volume loud enough to hear down in my apartment, which is a) not appropriate volume for Elliott Smith (unless he is hoping to puncture the space-time continuum and reach Elliott Smith in the afterlife and go, “Dude, you rock!”) and b) slightly disturbing, as it is currently three in the morning.

If you want to know why I am awake at three in the morning, you can take it up with the fulfilling discipline of professional TV watching, because it has caused my entire sleep schedule to go batshit. I guess it doesn’t help that I never go in there during the day anymore (ever since I was forbidden to acknowledge my friendship with Frank in the workplace, I’ve been hesitant to go in there since, oh I don’t know, they all fucking hate me).

The best part is that my boyfriend, who used to be even worse than me in the nocturnalism department, has now turned over a new leaf and passes out every night at 1 am without so much as a toss-and-turn. What’s worse, every morning at like 830, he bolts upright and does a backflip off the side of the bed, yanks on his clothes, and proceeds to pick up his guitar and play “Needle in the Hay” at full volume despite the fact that some of us are sleeping. (Perhaps my upstairs neighbor’s late-night antics are out of revenge? Who knows).

Anyway, he also has this thing where he can eat any type of food at any tiem of the day, so he thinks nothing of heating up leftover Tikka Masala at 9 am even though some of us cannot function in this cruel, cruel world (much less face the aroma of non-breakfast food) without approximately one hour of puttering around and coffee drinking. I thought by taking up with one of those ac-tore types I’d be in for a lifetime of hard partying and sleeping through daylight–I never thought I’d be the one with the self-discipline problem or insomnia, that’s for fucking sure.

Well, all I know is that if I don’t hear any signs of movement from 5F for three days and things start to stink up there and then one day I come home and find the poor guy being taken out on a stretcher, I’ll know the Elliott Smith is to blame.

*Actually, that’s not true. Elliott Smith was the Nick Drake of today. Nick Drake was the Kafka of then. And Kafka didn’t actually kill himself and probably had a terrible singing voice, but who cares? The point is: feel sorry for 5F, because he is sad.

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