Won't You Be My Neighbor
This is what I look like right this very second (this photo now with more grain!):
Note the mixture of pissed offedness and curiosity. And this is what it sounds like in my apartment office right this very second. While I would love it if there actually were a herd of rabid donkeys in my office right now (because frankly writing about how that situation came to be would be way more interesting that this post), that, my friends is what it sounds like when my upstairs neighbors make whoopee and the uncomfortable look expressed above is how I feel when I hear what is clearly deviant piggy sex (since normal people making love don't sound like a barnyard on fire) between two (or more) vile people going on above me. Put that sound clip on repeat for 97 FUCKING MINUTES AND COUNTING, imagine a guy who looks like Matt Pinfield (featured here for no reason at all as a snowman):
"knocking boots" as my grandmother would say with a twenty-something version of Izma from The Emperor's New Groove:
And voila, you have a recipe for one of the most uncomfortable Wednesday nights you will ever experience without the aid of qualudes.
What's interesting about my upstairs neighbors is that they're not good looking or nice or useful as people really at all. In fact, with their stupid 4AM James Blunt-inspired kareoke sessions and unending supply of vomit-tinged cigarette butts, I would say they're just the opposite. Yet somehow, they've managed to take all of the energy that most of us spend on not being societal succubi and have harnessed it into multiple-hour, no-holds-barred donkey noise-riddled sex that sounds like it can only be rivaled by actual multiple-hour, no-holds-barred intercourse involving real donkeys.
A sharp contrast to this would be my bedroom life where the vast majority of time spent in the proverbial sack is spent between talking about how many kinds of salt we have in the house (7...seriously) and whether or not we know anyone who might conceivably have more kinds of specialty salt in their home (the answer is no...or is it? Duh, duh, duuuuuuuuuhhhhh!). While researching a story today, I came across this and the hardened realization that yes, even the chess club is getting more action than I am is enough to make me weep lonely, celibate tears at my desk. Unfortunately nobody can hear them thanks to the asses up above.