Dear Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe,

Hey!  How are you?  That’s good!  I’m great.

That, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, is how all of our conversations should go.  If you or I are feeling a bit creative then deviation from the script is acceptable, but too much adlibbing is distracting, hinders moving on to the next scene, and just downright pisses me off which is, by the way, one of the many things Patrick Swayze and I have in common.  Yet, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, you still insist on being my John Leguizamo in To Wong Foo.  How can we rectify this?

You see, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, I don’t dislike you.  In fact, I enjoy your presence as my neighbor—you are quiet, soft spoken, and oldish, so you’re neither an annoyance nor a threat.  Please know that this is not a letter of chastisement.  What I am trying to say is I like you, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, and I’d like to keep it that way, so the only way that is going to be possible is if you modify your behavior.

Since you have told me on numerous occasions that you are an alcoholic, I will break down this behavior modification that I am suggesting into three, easy-to-follow rules.

Rule number one: Do not embark upon long conversations with me when I am clearly carrying heavy objects or if I have to prop my door open to have them.  I appreciate, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, that you want to introduce The Boyfriend and me to other people in the building.  This is one of the reasons that I like you.  However, when both The Boyfriend and I are laden with bags of groceries, a box fan, and a vacuum cleaner it should be clear to you that stopping us in the parking lot in the middle of the hottest August day to introduce us to another tenant is not acceptable.  Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, Other Neighbor Who Happens To Also Have A Cat was clearly on his own mission from which he did not want to be deterred either!  I suppose I cannot be too upset, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, because you were as unaware of Other Neighbor Who Happens To Also Have A Cat’s desire to be on his own way, so you did not intend to personally irritate us, but, to be clear, the fact that Other Neighbor Who Happens To Also Have A Cat cohabitates with a feline like The Boyfriend and I do does not make it okay to watch as we sweat and juggle awkward boxes.

I have to apologize here, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, because rule number one has two parts, which I know is not fair, especially at this early juncture in rule explanation, but I must insist that you not embark upon long conversations with me when I have to prop my door open to have them either.  Last night is a good example of why.  To be frank, my cats are kind of assholes.  Because of this serious affliction, they tend to want to run out into the hallway which you, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, are across.  This would not be such a big deal if it were not for our other neighbors who sometimes prop the shared doors to the outside open because they are not as concerned as you or I with being murdered, which is, I must say, another reason why I find you favorable as a neighbor.

Now, I understand; I was vacuuming at eight o’clock at night on a Saturday which can really be an annoyance.  It’s much like your pipe which constantly lingers in the air, now that I think of it.  So I can see why you knocked on my door to ask what that sound was, noting that, as an alcoholic, sometimes there are sounds which only occur in your head.  You needed clarification, and I was glad to give it.  I, embarrassed, told you I would gladly stop for the night as it was late, and that should have been where our conversation ended, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe; however, it did not.

This is when I noticed you were drunk.  You were kind enough, though, to also tell me in case I could not tell.  It was, I admit, an impressive kind of drunk in which you were largely functional, but drunk nonetheless.  In this state, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, you tend to be repetitive and again unaware that I desire to be inside and not having a conversation.  I understand now that you do not pick up on the subtlety of “have a nice night” as a way to end a conversation, and for that I thank you as I will be sure to be more forceful if ever I find myself in a similar situation with you again, but the fact that both of my cats, at separate times, ran out and how annoyed I was at this should have also clued you in.

You should have also realized our conversation was going downhill when I had to remind you of my name more than once which brings me to rule number two: do not forget my name.  I know your name, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe.  I may not be utilizing it here, but I know your full name.  It is objectively insulting to forget someone’s name you have spoken with on more than one occasion.  You cannot know that this is a problem I have dealt with my entire life, that my forgetability is incredibly high, but I am largely becoming intolerant of this fact.  My name is not “Amy.”  I admire your valiant efforts, plentiful as they are, at making my name Amy, even more than once in the same conversation, but no matter how many times you point at me, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, cock your head like a slightly retarded dog, and say, “Amy, right?” I am never going to give you a double thumbs up and answer, “Right!”  I don’t even do double thumbs ups, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, so please, do not expect one.  It would be better for both of us if you simply pretend you know my name and just not use any personal designation when addressing me.  This is a problem which pains me slightly more than those in rule number one because I know you know The Boyfriend’s name seeing as you used it in our conversation last night which brings me to the third and final rule: above all, do not be creepy.

This is imperative, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe.  Creepiness will not be tolerated.  Do not ask me if The Boyfriend is home when I answer the door at night.  Your intentions are largely unknown to me, though I have cited that I enjoy you as a neighbor because I find you unthreatening, but please be aware that there are various ninja weapons hidden around the apartment a la Dwight Shrute.  I think this rule needs no further explanation.

So, in summation, no long conversations, no guessing my name, no creepiness.  These are the rules you must follow in order to continue being considered an acceptable neighbor to me.  I think those are simple enough, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, but if you need clarification please do hesitate to contact me.  If you find you have problems modifying your behavior in accordance with what I have set up here, limit all contact with me to a wave and a nod when we are forced to see one another and you will have successfully followed them without worry.

Thank you so much for your time,

Not Amy

An Open Letter To The Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo

Dick move, bro.  Total dick move.

But not for the reasons you think.

First of all, a stereo is just a stereo—it’s a thing.  A thing I don’t need.  You, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, you just took away a thing.  However, with it you took so much more.

When I was eight, I was going to be a star.  Ask my mom; she walked in on me in my room being Shania Twain too many times to count.  Being interrupted during imaginary concerts which I co-performed with the Backstreet Boys and The Monkees (I was a very musically decade-confused child) was my adolescent equivalent to masturbation.  I mean, not that it took the place of masturbation, it was just what I was walked in on doing like in all those teen movies—kids are always getting walked in on during masturbation.  Look, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, you’re making me digress and sound like I learned about my lady parts to “The Last Train To Clarksville.”  Whether or not that is the truth is not the point. 

The point is, you did not steal imminent stardom away from me—my uber stage fright and lack of talent did that at the tryouts for a talent show in the sixth grade in which I could not pull off Monica’s soulful part in “The Boy Is Mine.”  But despite the fact that I can’t get up in front of people without my voice quivering and that I can’t match half of the pitches I hear and that I’ve only got an octave and a half range (alto—and no one gives a shit about female altos), my car was my Ambassador Theatre.  I could scream myself into emo-ridden tears with Gerard Way and Billy Joe Armstrong, I could deafeningly and delusionally try to hit Mariah Carey’s high notes, I could put on the perfect show where I was both Megara and the Muses in Disney’s Hercules.  I was Sandra Dee, Roxie Hart, Jesus Christ Superstar.  But now…now I am the silent shell of a former blindingly brilliant star, throat slashed like the plastic around what used to be my orchestra pit.

Also, you sat in my car seat, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo.  Ew.  I feel totally violated.  I do not like to think about your ass where my delicate derriere goes.  When I was very upset about what you had done, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, I imagined the kind of person you are.  I am an open-minded, liberal sucker for all the criminals breakin’ the laws, but sometimes I get angry and revert to someone who’s lived in backwater, white-bred, red-state Appalachia for far too long.  I see the people who walk these streets.  I have painted your profile.  And you know what I see?  I see your clothes—and they are WAY TOO FUCKING BIG FOR YOU.

Because of this, it makes it much more likely that your ass is hanging out.  Your bare ass on my car seat.  Your bare ass that you have likely not cleaned recently.  Your bare ass that you have likely not cleaned recently and shoved massive amounts of drugs into because that’s why you’re stealing my mother fucking stereo, so you can fucking pawn it, probably to the fucking pawn shop RIGHT ACROSS THE FUCKING STREET, for enough cash to buy some more crack to shove in YOUR crack and sell to little kids and make them crack addicts too so they have to go out and steal other peoples’ personal Ambassador Theatres for crack to shove into their cracks.  Look, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, I don’t know anything about drugs, but I’m imagining them up your butt because I’m angry and this whole paragraph is butt-related, okay?  Cut me some slack—YOU JUST BROKE INTO MY CAR AND STOLE MY STEREO!

But I could live with these things, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, and I could ignore them if you hadn’t caused me a third and final malfeasant.  You made me think that the universe hated me.  How dare you, how VERY dare you.  I am an optimist.  I believe that good ultimately comes from good.  I have never needed positive reinforcement in my life to make me be nice or loving or to put up with peoples’ shit or to decide that it’s okay when things go wrong and to keep on smiling, because I’ve known that it’s more important for me to put out good into the world than to get good back, to even expect good back, because the universe would appreciate good and make other good happen—not necessarily to me or anyone I know, but just any good.  But I’ve been depressed lately and felt useless and hopeless and I just finished Wicked which destroyed a little piece of my soul and then this, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo.  This.

You do this and I become this solipsistic asshole who thinks the universe is so concerned with her that it’s decided to hate her.  What the fuck is up with that?  In a way, you turned me back into that eight year old who sang on her bed to a crowd of stuffed animals only they were throwing rotten vegetables at her instead of panties.  See, I am liberal, really, because I would like to be a lesbian icon whom gets ladies underwear thrown at her, and not just because those are preferable to rotten vegetables, but because they mark adoration and adoration from any group is adoration—I’m not prejudiced.  No, not used undies, new ones bought right before the concert because that would be funny because it’s so cliche, right?  So then this one girl does it and I make a big deal about it and then everyone starts doing it.  See?  Liberal.  Oh, but Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, you are making me digress again.

So maybe I should be thanking you, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, for rescuing me from what could have been a really horrible self-indulgent depression.  (Sidenote: Universe, if this was your doing for the same reasons, thanks.  I promise not to think you’re so concerned with me, Universe, that you’d single me out for anything ever again.)

But, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, I’m not going to thank you because, really, YOU BROKE INTO MY CAR AND STOLE MY STEREO!  That qualifies as a dick move and does not garner gratitude.

And by the way, you didn’t even get the most valuable things in there like the lei I had from Amanda’s bridal shower or Molly’s taekwondo medals or the Homies sticker from Maggie.  So suck on that, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo.

Suck. On. That.

--Ashley

P.S. I got really attached to The Monkees reference I made earlier, and I cheated you out of a way better Shania Twain reference.  I’m sorry, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, but only because it’s a pretty good one, not because I feel bad for depriving you.  Here is what it should have read:

“[My mom] walked in on me in my room being Shania Twain too many times to count…[Interrupted performing] was my adolescent equivalent to masturbation.  I mean, not that it took the place of masturbation, it was just what I was walked in on doing like in all those teen movies—kids are always getting walked in on during masturbation.  Look, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, you’re making me digress and sound like I learned about my lady parts to “Man I Feel Like A Woman.”

P.P.S. I actually do have to thank you, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, because you finally gave me a reason to use the word malfeasant.  I love that word.  But you should just know that I have to thank you; I’m not going to actually say it because, you know, YOU BROKE INTO MY CAR AND STOLE MY STEREO!

To My Unborn, Unconceived (Probably) Child

I haven’t got my period yet this cycle. I am not stressed out about this. Not yet. I have had some cramps, am unnecessarily cranky and am ravenous for chocolate, so it’s just a waiting game with my ovaries at this point. But it got me thinking: someday I could make another human!

So what would I want that human to know if I were in some horrible accident post its birth and it never knew me? What would it have to go off of? These blog posts? Dear God. The stored files on my computer? Holy Horus. The things people tell it? (Don’t think I’m callous because I’m calling it an “it.” One of English’s flaws is that we do not have a third person, singular, genderless pronoun. “Them” is plural and so grammatically incorrect. “It” is the best I can do without using that horrible him/her concoction.) I’m sure people would say nice stuff about me, but normally people say nice stuff about dead people which is probably more often than we realize (or want to recognize) just inflated garbage because when someone’s dead we suddenly have to be nice to them. That doesn’t really make any sense. What is that person gonna do about it, really?

That person is dead.

Even though I believe in ghosts and am pretty sure that if someone called me a dick once I died that I would find a way to haunt them, and not like Patrick Swayze in Ghost haunt them, but just generally make them miserable haunt them, doesn’t mean that most other people believe in ghosts or would be capable, once they die, of pulling off a successful haunt. I imagine you need to really plan out your haunting ahead of time and hone your apparition skills (source: Beetlejuice) and just because you suddenly have an infinite amount of time on your newly transparent hands doesn’t mean the still-living cocksuckers defaming your memory are going to be around forever, waiting for you to paranormally get back at them. And the desire to haunt them will wear off if you take too long after they’ve forgotten about how shitty you were when you were alive, so you have to get to this haunting thing right away after death. Which is why I’ll be sweet at it because I’m thinking about it now and planning it, and no, you can't know about my haunting plans because then, if I die and want to haunt you but you know about what I want to do, then when creepy shit starts happening to you, you'll just be all “Oh, Ashley, stop that!” or “Hey, you broke my vase! You owe me! What’s Michael Jackson up to?” But I won’t be able to tell you what Michael Jackson’s up to because he’s not dead, just hanging out in Dubai, but you won’t believe me because no one believes me when I tell them that–and you’d think being dead would make people find my argument a little more compelling, but you’d probably just think I was being lazy when in actuality I wouldn’t be--I'd be the opposite of lazy because, after you’d be all “I know Jacko’s not dead!” then I’d be like, “Fine…” and I’d have to go to Dubai and haunt him a little, find out, and report back to you like he’s dead. And that’s just unsuccessful haunting all together. Not that it will matter because most people aren’t horrible like me and think it’s okay to talk shit about the deceased, so they won’t say crap about me which is actually pretty nice.

But really, you should be much nicer to people when they’re alive, especially if they’re an asshole (ew, see, that “they” is just wrong) because people who are assholes are more likely to punch you in the face if you talk shit about them and even ghosts can’t punch. At least not at first. And I don’t believe it’s out of respect for the still living because, if that dead person was a jerk and you say so the other people should be like, “Yeah, Jim was kind of a douche” because chances are that Jim was a douche to the people who are saddened by his death too. Douchiness is douchiness. I mean, if you were a douche and then you fall out of a hot air balloon it’s not really like people have an obligation to suddenly recognize your good qualities, if any, or pretend like you were sweet.

So what I’m saying is, if my child is my child then it will probably think about this (because nature over nurture, apparently) and not really trust everything everyone says because the people who know me well enough to tell my it about me will say nice things. Granted, those things (except for the me hating on dead people stuff) will be utterly true because I am pretty fucking sweet, but my it deserves some empirical evidence of my true existence and not the fluff that will come about because I can’t stick up for my own damn self because I’m dead and haven't gotten a hang on haunting yet.

Actually, now that I think about it, that’s pretty valiant of you, still-living people. To push aside your own qualms and think of my it who never got a chance to know me. That’s really, really nice. See, now that’s a true thing I would say about you if you were dead first, “Dude, Sally would have been so sweet to my kid and told it how awesome I was if I’d have died first! She was a saint!” Of course, I couldn’t genuinely know that, but since you’d be dead, I would probably give you the benefit of the doubt. Oh, gosh, becoming the thing I hate already.

Well, since you still-living people seem to have it covered, I guess I can forgo this whole thing. Except that this entry will still exist and then cause the whole “Are these people lying to me about my mum?” question to be in my it’s head. (Yeah, it is going to call me “mum.” Deal with it.)

Unborn, (probably) unconceived baby, Mum was awesome.

Done.

P.S. I just got my period, so I could take out those parenthetical probablies and that whole first paragraph, but I’m not going to. Instead, you can just relax with this little bit extra knowledge here at the end.