… is if I see the bloated and (beer-)battered corpse of my inconsiderate loudmouth lout of a neighbor, Mr. I Am The Only Person Not Only In This Building But Also Apparently In The World And P.S. I Am Hideous, face up (oh, OK, I’ll go with face down too; I’m not picky) in the curbside trash where he belongs and deserves to be, and not in the apartment below mine, where he does not.
This morning his drone started at 5:15, and continued for two hours. Moments ago, I heard it again, and then it stopped … but I know that as soon as I think I won’t hear it again, I will. And the night will continue in this fashion. And I will continue to fantasize about all the various ways I want him to die and how I would be of able assistance in hastening that demise, preferably while wearing some sort of shiny, satiny cape and a pair of exceedingly high quality boots.
Meanwhile, I will only get back at him by vacuuming loudly over his bedroom at 7:45 a.m. (The pilfering of his New York Post from the “front stoop” and the removal of his name from his mailbox were a little too extreme.)
Note to Internet Detectives Of The Future Who Have Seized My Computer Because I Seem A Likely Suspect In The Murder Of My Cross-Eyed, Potato-Faced, Spongy-Bodied Neighbor: I did not do it. Please note that when I spoke of assisting his demise, I merely said fantasize. I am the girl who literally cannot harm a fly … even the one who, along with her fuzzy-legged friends, laid maggoty eggs in the crossed-eye sockets of my mysteriously murdered neighbor.