Open letter to my building:

To the gentlemen upstairs: please stop singing along to your Time Life Classic Punk Collection. I understand that some washed-up sitcom star was very convincing during the infomercial and it must be very exciting to have all your favorites in one boxed set. I would even be willing to give them a listen with you from my apartment. No complaints. But fellas, The Ramones didn't want you. And they won't. And don't think I don't realize that your voice drifts out of your bathoom window. Without the shower running. You make me want to be calling from London to tell you to shut up.

To the motley crew of hipsters next door: My, what an active social life you all have. I, for one, am thrilled that you are able to find the time to rock out with all the complaining, bedazzling, and hung-over fighting you do. I'm stunned that you manage to fit lengthy phone calls in. My only question is this: are you calling someone in Estonia or are the rates realy really low between 3 and 5 in the morning?

To the crazed hippie with the ax murder brother: Stop complaining to me that the people you shout racial slurs at decided to throw a rock through your window. Every time you tell me I want to bring them flowers. I mean really, you want sympathy that someone opposed racism? Boo-hoo you dumb bigot with the filthy cats.  

All the chaos is making it a little hard to compose my thoughts or do any knitting. I've gotten a little work done on the first sleeve of the Tangled Yoke. I have only 6 rows of the body until I have to attach the sleeves and I was concerned that if I didn't push to get going on the next step I'd feel satisfied with my progress and eighty years from now those sorting through my effects would marvel at such a wonderful start of a rather nice green something.