As I know I've mentioned before, I like to rock. Hard. But I live in an apartment, so rocking to my full potential can be difficult. Especially when you have Music Hating Chest Hair(MHCH)* living right above you. Let me tell you a bit about MHCH...He's a physical trainer, with Michael Landon hair, and wears women's work-out pants with flowers on them.
The first time I met him he got all philosophical religiony on me, for NO reason at all while he was showing me the new light fixtures he just put in, like I gave a fuck. I only went up there, cuz my friends used to live in that apartment, and I wanted to know if my chili powder was still there. (it wasn't)
He proceeds to tell me how smart he is, and how he can straighten my spine, and show see some neato excersizes. Totally gross.
So, from that point on, I avoid him like i avoid the dead that feeds on the living in my basement.
but now, about 3-5 times a week, he comes downstairs to tell me to "TURN IT DOWN...my bedroom is right above you, you know..." and never wears a shirt. ever.
He comes busting in thrusting his slimey chest hair all over the place, then lingers in the door when i apologize, like some kind of perv-o-matic.
I rarely crank my system to Manowar volume late at night just avoid the brain surgeon/jesus weirdo/haircut 100 from harassing me, but it's like he has all phenomenal super-hearing....I bet he can hear my keyboard clicking right now...
He came down last night, and made me turn down 12 Rods, at like, 9pm. what a suck.
but that's not the worst part.....Still no shirt, but this time he was brandishing a newly WAXED, slimey, slithery chest! El Vomito. El Barfo.
As he floated back upstairs, i noticed my laundry had been taken out of the dryer, and put in the basket, and HIS laundry was there now. I HAD UNDERS IN THAT LOAD AND MHCH, now minus the chest hair, TOUCHED IT.
God, i hate him. the NERVE! If he could come all the way down here to bitch about my good taste in not so loud music, he could have also asked me to move MY OWN laundry.
Is that creepy? yeah. duh.
I will now devote all my time devising plans to get him to move out of here, and into some sort of mental institution.
I have some fucked up neighbors, but I would much rather listen to my upstairs and to the right neighbor, Roberto puking outside on the sidewalk every single morning for the past 2 years at 5am, then have to look at the waxed supergenious ever again.
*name has been changed, cuz i bet he knows what his real name sounds like when it's typed too loud.
