So, say you lived in a wonderfully cheap apartment building. You love your apartment, but the neighbor above won't give you much rest (hello, VACUUMING BEFORE 9AM ON A SATURDAY MORNING).
You beg and plead with God to make her stop. You sleep with the air conditioner on even in the fall so that there's some white noise cover.
You shake your fist. Hourly. MUST YOU WEAR YOUR STILETTOS INDOORS?
You told her about herself already ONCE.
You practice conversations with yourself to figure out exactly how to come off like you mean business without sounding like a TOTAL bee-yotch for the NEXT time.
And then God smiles upon you.
A crooked, crooked, smile.
My landlady informed me that someone on the TOP (TIPPY TOP) floor is moving out. She knew I was only half moved in, and figured she'd ask to see if I wanted to move upstairs.
On paper, sounds PHENOMENAL. Same building, but the sunnier side. Same lay out. Same rent. Park view (over a smaller building, but still).
That apartment is surrounded by old people who chain smoke in their places and that smoke travels up. INTENSELY. The smell of smoke pours from her kitchen sink, seeps through her closets, and stains her windows black. She spends $30 on candles a month to cover up the odor. She fabreezes herself before she goes to work. She has already had her couch cushions dry cleaned. She changes her sheets every 4 days so they don't reek.
I enjoy a cigarette socially every now and again. Usually after a blurry-fun night. But all the time? At least Stompy goes away sometimes.
I ask you. Which is the greater evil?
Stompy or Smokey?