About a week and a half ago, an incident filled me with so much rage that it has taken me this long to be able to calm down and write about it. Any earlier, and this post would have been filled with c-bombs.
As you might already know if you’ve read a few of my posts, I live in a pretty small apartment (for a layout of my rockin’ bachelor pad, check out The Postman Screws Me Twice). Sometimes, I vacuum said apartment. It probably takes me a good two minutes to do it. Three, if I ate crackers that week.
On Friday, February 15, 2013, I took the day off from work (because I had a wildly romantic Valentine’s Day the night before and needed a day to recover. HAHAHAHAHAHA. Good one). I spent the morning doing some shopping with my friend and her precious little baby. It was a lovely outing! I made an impulse purchase of a new vacuum, because my old one sucked (or actually, did not suck. That was the problem). I was very excited when I got home to put together my new vacuum and give it a whirl!
2:30 pm: I begin vacuuming the living room. Wow! I didn’t realize the rug was so crumb-infested! That’s where that Goldfish cracker went…Amazing!
2:31 pm: I switch to the hardwood floors. Flipping between the floor settings is so easy! This is magnificent!
2:31:15 pm: I’m in the kitchen. This vacuum has such power! I’ve never felt so alive!
2:31:25 pm: I turn around to face my entrance door. A piece of paper has been slipped under it. Huh, that wasn’t there when I started vacuuming a minute ago. Must be a note from the landlord about an upcoming smoke detector check or something…
It wasn’t. It was the most foul and offensive thing I have ever seen in my life.
2:31:45 pm: My heart racing, I shut off the vacuum and while clutching the vile note, leave my apartment and scurry down the stairs. I knock on the door to the apartment below me. No answer.
2:32:00 pm: I knock again. No answer. I know you’re in there…
2:32:30 pm: The old man who plays the ukulele shirtless in front of the building on a green plastic chair in the summer enters the building and says hello while passing by me. I say hello and ask him how he’s doing, NICE AND LOUD, so the coward on the other side of the door could hear that I was still standing there.
2:32:45 pm: I knock again. No answer. Yeah, you should be scared…
2:33:00 pm: I give up. It takes everything in me to stop myself from shouting, “WELL, IF YOU WANT TO PLAY IT THAT WAY, ASSHOLE…” as I storm back up the stairs and into my apartment.
2:33:15 pm: I sit down and craft my response to the note.
2:37:00 pm: I take a picture of said note.
2:38:00 pm: I return to the door of the neighbour below me, and slip (actually, more accurately, whip) the revised note into her apartment, brush my hands and strut away, head held high.
2:38:45 pm: I take my sweet time continuing the rest of the vacuuming in my bedroom and bathroom, making sure to get every single little corner and crevice along the way.
2:45:00 pm: I post the picture of the note on Facebook, which collects an unprecedented 40+ likes on my status, and 35+ enraged comments.
Here is the note: I warn you, it will make you mad. Please do not operate heavy machinery or be holding a baby as you read this note. theVERYsinglegirl.com is in no way responsible for the damages related to reading this note, including but not limited to rage-induced blackouts, seizures, fists into walls, or an offensive slew of profanity in front of loved ones.
The three lines written in blue is the original note slipped under my door. Read this first, and let the rage consume you. Then, read my response starting at the top and work your way around clockwise. (It was not slipped back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, as some people have read it and asked me why I didn’t just wait by the door and catch the offender in the act, shouting, “AH HA! GOTCHA!” when they slipped it back under. But that would have been awesome). Also, remember what time of day it was and how long it takes to vacuum my apartment.
I know. I KNOW. I KNOW. Where do these people come from?! How are they allowed to function in society?! They should be separated from the rest of us and placed together in some sort of camp…Eeek. I’m going to stop there.
I’m not really sure how the “polite conversation” that I referred to would have went. I’m guessing something like this: “Hi. I live above you. Nice to meet you. Not. This note is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. I do not accept this. Good day!”
I haven’t had any contact with this person other than once seeing her go down the stairs into her apartment as I checked my mailbox. From what I remember, she’s blonde with an average height and build. I could take her. I thought she was around my age, but now I think she must be 10. I’ve seen, who I assume is, a boyfriend visit her a few times, but I haven’t seen him lately. She was probably dumped. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Let’s recall the details of the situation:
Floors get dirty.
Vacuums clean dirty floors.
There is no time more appropriate for vacuuming dirty floors than 2:30pm on a Friday.
I don’t know that she’s a student.
I don’t know that she studies.
I don’t know when she studies.
I don’t care if or when she studies. I can vacuum my apartment at any time during the day for two minutes.
I am 100% right in this situation. HOW DARE SHE cowardly sneak into MY HOME and insinuate that I am anything less than perfect?! I am a DREAM to live under. I don’t like anything loud, and I don’t like people. A DREAM.
Also, I am the queen of passive aggressive notes (she doesn’t know who she’s dealing with). Come to think of it, I already had one on my door that should have deterred the entire situation:
Yup. It’s still there from my near-death experience in Proof that mail, and the world, is out to get me. And yet, my neighbour still chose to slip the note under the door. Attempted murder! My neighbour is trying to kill me!
I like to think that at the same time I was posting a picture of the note on Facebook, she was doing the same with the caption: “Look at how PSYCHO my neighbour is! I leave her one little note and she writes me an entire novel! What a loser!”
A loser who now vacuums wearing her tap shoes.