No sooner do I blog about wanting to care less about what others think, and I am tested on my resolve. Last night at about 2am, the sounds of blaring Mexican kareoke music woke me from my peaceful slumber. I was confused–I thought a law student lived next door. She was never home, and it was glorious. What was this new intrusion?? I laid in bed listening to a man screaming at the top of his lungs, off key and off beat, for over an hour as he sang in Spanish to these horrible songs. Replete with brassy trumpets and maracas. Te quierrrrrrrrrrrrrro! Mi amoooooooor!

I got angrier and angrier, and I kept mentally cursing him. Willing him to become too tired or drunk to continue. Begging him to at least sing on key so that my ears could stop bleeding. But I could never go and say anything to him, because WHAT WOULD HE THINK OF ME? *sigh*

So I realized that I needed to say something–hours of blaring mariachi music are just not acceptable. If he hates me from here on out, I guess I’ll live. I knocked on his door to no avail. The music was so loud, he couldn’t hear me and he just kept on crooning. By the time my banging got loud enough for him to hear, I was not exactly at my most graceful. He also refused to open his door, so I had to shout at him to be heard. Here I am, trying to keep my cool, but forced to pound on his door and scream in the hallway at 3:30am.

And to top off my experience, he just yelled back at me that he never complains when I have parties. Wait. What? Pardon? Cayate la boca! I am OLD. I am BORING. People do not come over here! And most importantly, I DO NOT EVEN OWN A STEREO. And I guarantee you that if I did, it would have two tape decks and a handle. What parties!? So I screamed to him that if he’s got beef, he needs to come tell me when we’re being too loud at our PARTIES. Maybe he undestands fiestas differently than I do, but I’m pretty sure laying in bed watching Futurama and clicking my retractable highlighters do not qualify.

So now I am trying desperately not to care what this guy thinks of me, but of course I am also worried that I’ve started some kind of neighbor-war that will ultimately culminate in flaming dog poop on my doorstep or some other such nonsense.  And since he never opened his door and I didn’t even realize he lived there, I don’t know what he looks like. I will probably pass him in the hallway or bump into him in the laundry room only to be leered at and spat upon. Well, I guess I will just NOT CARE. Or care less. He was in the wrong, not me. I’ll just have to live with that and brush up on my Spanish skills for our next inevitable encounter. Ese cabron!