Oh My GOD, Downstairs Man, Stop! STOP!!!

(I wrote this last night.)

I was wrong about Downstairs Neighbors playing music because of the crying baby. What those horrible loud noises are - I just figured out - are Downstairs Man, playing his electric bass.

Loudly. Because boys with electric guitars of any kind seem to think they are Eddie Fucking Van Halen. And that everyone else really needs to hear their genius. The genious downstairs is playing "whamp whamp whamp whamp" - pause - "whamp whamp whamp whamp." Which even I could play on a bass guitar, and I'm lousy at laying down a bass line (to the extent that no one who knows me would use my name and "laying down a bass line" in the same sentence).

At all hours of the night. See, I was very sympathetic when I thought that Downstairs Neighbors were desperately trying to get their littlest one to sleep or at least to drown out the sounds of the littlest one so that they did not go insane. I am less sympathetic when I realize that it is a testosterone rush that is responsible for my accidental chair massage (seriously, that's how bad it is. My butt is vibrating, and I feel somewhat violated.).

Of course, it is entirely possible that it is Downstairs Woman who is responsible for this hideous state of affairs, but somehow, I don't think it is she. I've met both of them, and Downstairs Man is the one who seemed clueless enough to believe that the rest of the building might not mind hearing his seismic fumblings.

Asshat.