An Open Letter to My Really Loud Dorm Neighbor
Dear Dude That Lives in the Dorm Room Above Me,
You have stolen my sanity and peace of mind. You've whittled me down to a mere shell of the person I once was. Are you happy? Was that your plan? (I'm Elodie, by the way. Nice to meet you. I live in the dorm directly below you, and I think you're terrible.)
I've got to hand it to you, dude: I have never lived near such a disruptive person, and I don't say that lightly. Last year I lived by two people that hated each other and fought constantly; one girl that didn't seem to realize Ke$ha could be played at any volume less than deafening; another who often came home drunk, then proceeded to puke, yell, and throw objects; and a really loud and probably haunted elevator that would frequently get stuck, prompting immediate screams and shouts for help from whoever was trapped inside. Weekends sounded like a Ke$ha-riddled horror movie with lots of vomit and shouting. And still, you are worse. You win the prize.
What exactly is my complaint here? I'll be straight with you: it's the basketball. I don't know if you're aware of this, but that basketball you dribble so enthusiastically (and so gosh-darn frequently) has the power to send me into a rage. Here's the thing—and I don't know if you've mastered the basics of common sense, but let's proceed as if you haven't—your floor is my ceiling. Dust filters down from above. The walls shake. I can hear the pervasive thudding of that basketball in my very soul. And I mean, come on, 2 am? Why are you dribbling that basketball at 2 am? It's loud, it's constant, and it sounds like a herd of elephants having a mosh pit. How are you even doing that? I'll have you know that during your (apparently mandatory) midnight basketball dribble session last night, I had dream-flashbacks of the time in sixth grade I got hit in the face with a basketball. Twice. I bled over everything, and two other girls started crying. These are not fond memories, Neighbor. These are not memories I am eager to re-visit.
So you see, what you're doing has prompted a downward spiral. I came here as a relatively sane person, but every time you bounce that basketball, I flinch. I seethe. And then I plot.
It started off simple. I thought about just pounding on the ceiling. But no, that wasn't good enough. That didn't convey a strong enough message. Next, I considered going upstairs and knocking on your door. But I decided against it, because that was letting you off too easy. You deserved more than that. You deserved to suffer. This was when the downward spiral came about. This was when my schemes took a turn. What started off as a mere passive-aggressive idea of the "I'll just bang on the ceiling" variety ultimately mushroomed into a full-fledged "I'll take a doll's head, put it on a broom, stick the broom out the window, and raise it until it's looking into his window with a sign that says 'FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP.'"
You may consider this an overreaction, and a creepy one at that. Not me. An overreaction, I think, would be getting my own basketball and bouncing it against my ceiling while shrieking, "LET'S SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT, DOUCHE CANOE!"
Bear in mind that this is the monster you created. You've unleashed my inner Liam Neeson from Taken, and I can't rein him in. Just know that I have a very particular set of skills—skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you just stop dribbling the freaking basketball, that'll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don't, I will look for you, I will find you, and there will be a broom doll looking through your window until the end of the winter semester.
I hope we can come to an understanding.
We snarf-laughed through our noses at least 3 times reading this post. Have you ever had an unbearably loud roommate or dorm neighbor? How did you cope? Do you have any suggestions for Elodie that DON'T include a Liam Neeson-esque doll-head montage?