Hi. We’ve never met, and I’m guessing we’re not going to, seeing as how I’m choosing to communicate with you in a very passive-aggressive manner via my blog–and since I’ve chosen not to wallpaper my neighborhood with 8″x10″ glossies of my face and book cover, you probably don’t know who I am. It’s okay. I’m fine with that.
But here’s the thing: I don’t like you.
Look, I understand that the grass you just mowed needs to be blown off the sidewalk with–I’m guessing by the amount of noise it makes–a jet engine. It’s grass; it’s heavy.
I get that we had a couple of thunderstorms earlier this week, and that your basement may have flooded and it needs to be pumped out. With–again, just a guess–a jet engine. And one of those fancy ones that only operates at an hour at which I am still sleeping.
I also understand that it must be difficult to be the owner of a deaf dog. I assume that it’s deaf, since otherwise you wouldn’t need to shout its name over and over–also at a frightfully early hour, and also directly into my bedroom window–despite the fact that it’s running around in a yard that is only about ten square feet and fenced in. I mean, we don’t want the dog to forget its name, which is Arya. Arya. Arya! Arya! Arya! Arya!
And hey: trees suck, am I right? Always growing and shit? Just selfishly stretching their branches out into the air, blocking all those beautiful views of your neighbors’ fascinating roof shingles? Dude, it is beyond reasonable to want to cut all of every one of those branches down. For six hours straight. With an entire Home Depot’s worth of chainsaws and wood chippers. Suck it, trees! We don’t want your stinkin’ oxygen! Go beautify our environment somewhere else!
All in all, I’ve really enjoyed the symphony of noise pollution coming from your house. It’s kept me on my toes, wondering what fresh hell you’re going to serenade me with today. It’s not like I work from home and am one of those writers who needs quiet to concentrate. Why, just the mere thought of your tree removal guys revving up that chainsaw again brings tears of delight to my eyes. Well, delight or blistering rage–two sides of the same coin, am I right? And sure, I could easily go to the library or a cafe or literally anywhere else other than your little Yard of Clamor, but I am clearly not very interested in acting in a reasonable manner. Case in point: I am blogging.
Don’t worry–I’m not going to confront you. Or interact with you in any way. Oh, I will joke with my husband about yelling “Arya! Arya! Arya!” out the window while you’re doing the exact same thing so your deaf dog doesn’t know which way to run, or maybe even throw in a Game of Thrones joke and inform her that winter is coming. Come next year, when the leaf blower ban for our town goes into effect, I may consider calling the police on you, but we all know that when I pick up the phone I’m just going to end up ordering pizza. And I might, just might, sit and stew on my couch for a while and try to screw up the courage to march right over there and DEMAND TO KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER THE CHAINSAWS WILL BE BLARING and then POLITELY NOD MY HEAD AND APOLOGIZE FOR INTERRUPTING. I may even THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME.
So listen: we’re good. You continue to loudly declare to the world that you exist, and I will continue to sit here and lose my mind while you do so. It’s a fine arrangement, one that may possibly result in the slow and steady dissolution of my writing career, but will definitely not result in anyone going to jail for murder and/or dog murder. So rest easy, neighbor.
But just be aware: the next poop you scoop out of your yard may not be from Arya.