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the best of times, the worst of times
Jan. 4th, 2019 03:15 amvia http://bit.ly/2LOieSB
lotstradamus:
so. we have VERY loud upstairs neighbours. or, rather, not loud – heavy-footed. we never hear their voices, but BOY do we FEEL THEIR VIBRATIONS. Upstairs are CONSTANTLY thundering about and making our glasses rattle. we’re used to them at this point. sometimes we’ll be watching a movie and hear a particularly loud series of thumps, and our lampshade will start swaying. it’s just part of every day life here at Casa Our Flat. we’ve hypothesised about who lives above us, and we’ve narrowed it down to: several rhinos, people with bricks for shoes, parkour virtuosos, or five tiny women who get around on Spacehoppers. we thought we’d never know for sure… UNTIL TONIGHT.
on this fated evening, upon getting in from a particularly horrendous shift at 11:30pm, my flatmate, Matt, my Mattmate, set upon me before I was all the way in the door like ‘listen! listen to this!’ me: ‘listen to wha-’ THUD. THUDTHUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. me: ‘oh my-’ THUD. THUDHUTHUDHDUDUD.
Upstairs had, I was informed, been at it for some time. the thuds were coming thick and they were coming fast. our lampshade was going like the clappers. my Mattmate, god bless him, was losing his mind. I – a humble receptionist who a) had a shitty day at work, and b) does not think that 11:30pm, regardless of whether or not it’s the weekend, is an acceptable time to be having carthwheel races up and down the hallway – was immediately riled. ‘RIGHT!’ I said, tearing off my coat and flinging it in the general vicinity of my bedroom, ‘THIS IS [THUDTHUDTHUD] RIDICULOUS! I’M GOING UP THERE!!!’
and, dear reader: I went up there.
I went hurtling out of the flat like a demon and took the stairs two at a time. my Mattmate, the coward, followed at a distance and lurked in the staircase while I pounded - VERITABLY POUNDED - on Upstairses’ door.
the thudding ceased. the music – inaudible downstairs, audible outside their door, but nothing compared to the volume of thuds – stopped. I heard muttered voices. I pounded again. the muttered voices got louder. the door opened.
a vision of beauty stood before me.
a TANNED, FLOPPY-HAIRED vision of beauty.
a SHIRTLESS, HUNKY, tanned, floppy-haired vision of beauty.
my resolve disappeared like candyfloss in a puddle. I am a weak-willed, weak-kneed snowman, and I melted. any desire I had to read Upstairs the riot act vanished in the face of SHIRTLESS HUNKY TANNED FLOPPY-HAIRED VISION OF BEAUTY, MR UPSTAIRS. “Hi,” I said, eventually, when I had both taken in all that was before me and become hyper-aware of everything that was wrong with my own appearance in that moment, “I’m Downstairs.”
I’m Downstairs? I’m Downstairs??? I DARE to besmirch this BREATHTAKING GRECIAN STATUE’S doorstep with my ill-fitting work suit and my I Have Literally Just Walked In The Door From The Outside, Where It Is Sleeting hair and face, and then I say HI, I’M DOWNSTAIRS?
Mr Upstairs, Shirtless Hunk, clearly a gentle and understanding soul, then COMPOUNDED MY AGONY by opening his mouth and saying, in a beautifully accented voice, “I am so sorry! we will stop!”
“No!” I said. yes, I meant. “It’s fine!” it was not fine. 15 seconds previous to this conversation I had fully come to terms with committing murder. “I just wanted to make sure everything was okay!” lies. all lies.
“We were playing with the ball,” explained Shirtless Hunk, Mr Upstairs.
“Ohhh, cool,” I, a liar who hates sports, replied. “No worries!”
and then – and then – the best thing happened. the best thing, and also the worst thing. I have described it to my Mattmate thrice in the 3-or-so hours since it happened, and every time he begs me to stop. another beautifully accented voice echoed from the depths of Upstairs. the door opened wider. and there, behind the shirtless, hunky, tanned, floppy-haired vision of beauty–
ANOTHER SHIRTLESS, HUNKY, TANNED, FLOPPY-HAIRED VISION OF BEAUTY. MSSRS UPSTAIRS, A PAIR OF BONAFIDE FUCKING HUNKS. JUST SOME HALF-CLOTHED, MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT SPORTS BABES. MY NEIGHBOURS, A DUO OF GOLDEN GODS, LIVING THEIR LIVES 10 FEET ABOVE ME AT ALL TIMES.
at this point, naturally, I completely lost my head.
“Ah!!!” I said. “Hello!!!”
Shirtless Hunk #2 was holding a football underneath his golden arm. He flicked his floppy hair off his perfectly lovely forehead and smiled. I immediately went blind. “SORRY!” he said. “WE WERE PLAYING FOOTBALL!”
“Ahaha,” I replied, “nooooo worries!”
“We will stop,” Shirtless Hunk The First assured me.
“No, no,” I lied, backing towards the door to the stairs where my Mattmate still lurked, unable to hear anything except my, I quote, ‘increasingly high-pitched voice’. “It’s fine! Just wanted to make sure you weren’t killing each other! Ha ha ha!”
“We are sorry,” reiterated the second Shirtless Hunk.
“No prob, bob,” said I, inexplicably, hating every syllable and also myself.
“Sorry!” the beautiful shirtless hunks kept saying as I fled backwards down the hall, desperately trying to escape the forcefield of their combined hunkiness, athleticism, and classic good looks. “Sorry!!!”
“It’s fine!” I continued to chant back, making my escape like some sort of confused crab in office wear. “No worries! Goodbye!”
AND THAT IS THE STORY OF HOW I, AN ANGRY RED GIRL IN A VERY UGLY UNIFORM, MET MY NEIGHBOURS, TWO MALE MODEL LOOKING MOTHERFUCKERS WHO WERE PROBABLY IN THAT ABERCROMBIE & FITCH WRESTLING ADVERT IN 2012 OR WHATEVER, AND FROM WHOM WE HAVE NOT HEARD A SINGLE SUBSEQUENT THUD, THE END
(Your picture was not posted)
lotstradamus:
so. we have VERY loud upstairs neighbours. or, rather, not loud – heavy-footed. we never hear their voices, but BOY do we FEEL THEIR VIBRATIONS. Upstairs are CONSTANTLY thundering about and making our glasses rattle. we’re used to them at this point. sometimes we’ll be watching a movie and hear a particularly loud series of thumps, and our lampshade will start swaying. it’s just part of every day life here at Casa Our Flat. we’ve hypothesised about who lives above us, and we’ve narrowed it down to: several rhinos, people with bricks for shoes, parkour virtuosos, or five tiny women who get around on Spacehoppers. we thought we’d never know for sure… UNTIL TONIGHT.
on this fated evening, upon getting in from a particularly horrendous shift at 11:30pm, my flatmate, Matt, my Mattmate, set upon me before I was all the way in the door like ‘listen! listen to this!’ me: ‘listen to wha-’ THUD. THUDTHUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. me: ‘oh my-’ THUD. THUDHUTHUDHDUDUD.
Upstairs had, I was informed, been at it for some time. the thuds were coming thick and they were coming fast. our lampshade was going like the clappers. my Mattmate, god bless him, was losing his mind. I – a humble receptionist who a) had a shitty day at work, and b) does not think that 11:30pm, regardless of whether or not it’s the weekend, is an acceptable time to be having carthwheel races up and down the hallway – was immediately riled. ‘RIGHT!’ I said, tearing off my coat and flinging it in the general vicinity of my bedroom, ‘THIS IS [THUDTHUDTHUD] RIDICULOUS! I’M GOING UP THERE!!!’
and, dear reader: I went up there.
I went hurtling out of the flat like a demon and took the stairs two at a time. my Mattmate, the coward, followed at a distance and lurked in the staircase while I pounded - VERITABLY POUNDED - on Upstairses’ door.
the thudding ceased. the music – inaudible downstairs, audible outside their door, but nothing compared to the volume of thuds – stopped. I heard muttered voices. I pounded again. the muttered voices got louder. the door opened.
a vision of beauty stood before me.
a TANNED, FLOPPY-HAIRED vision of beauty.
a SHIRTLESS, HUNKY, tanned, floppy-haired vision of beauty.
my resolve disappeared like candyfloss in a puddle. I am a weak-willed, weak-kneed snowman, and I melted. any desire I had to read Upstairs the riot act vanished in the face of SHIRTLESS HUNKY TANNED FLOPPY-HAIRED VISION OF BEAUTY, MR UPSTAIRS. “Hi,” I said, eventually, when I had both taken in all that was before me and become hyper-aware of everything that was wrong with my own appearance in that moment, “I’m Downstairs.”
I’m Downstairs? I’m Downstairs??? I DARE to besmirch this BREATHTAKING GRECIAN STATUE’S doorstep with my ill-fitting work suit and my I Have Literally Just Walked In The Door From The Outside, Where It Is Sleeting hair and face, and then I say HI, I’M DOWNSTAIRS?
Mr Upstairs, Shirtless Hunk, clearly a gentle and understanding soul, then COMPOUNDED MY AGONY by opening his mouth and saying, in a beautifully accented voice, “I am so sorry! we will stop!”
“No!” I said. yes, I meant. “It’s fine!” it was not fine. 15 seconds previous to this conversation I had fully come to terms with committing murder. “I just wanted to make sure everything was okay!” lies. all lies.
“We were playing with the ball,” explained Shirtless Hunk, Mr Upstairs.
“Ohhh, cool,” I, a liar who hates sports, replied. “No worries!”
and then – and then – the best thing happened. the best thing, and also the worst thing. I have described it to my Mattmate thrice in the 3-or-so hours since it happened, and every time he begs me to stop. another beautifully accented voice echoed from the depths of Upstairs. the door opened wider. and there, behind the shirtless, hunky, tanned, floppy-haired vision of beauty–
ANOTHER SHIRTLESS, HUNKY, TANNED, FLOPPY-HAIRED VISION OF BEAUTY. MSSRS UPSTAIRS, A PAIR OF BONAFIDE FUCKING HUNKS. JUST SOME HALF-CLOTHED, MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT SPORTS BABES. MY NEIGHBOURS, A DUO OF GOLDEN GODS, LIVING THEIR LIVES 10 FEET ABOVE ME AT ALL TIMES.
at this point, naturally, I completely lost my head.
“Ah!!!” I said. “Hello!!!”
Shirtless Hunk #2 was holding a football underneath his golden arm. He flicked his floppy hair off his perfectly lovely forehead and smiled. I immediately went blind. “SORRY!” he said. “WE WERE PLAYING FOOTBALL!”
“Ahaha,” I replied, “nooooo worries!”
“We will stop,” Shirtless Hunk The First assured me.
“No, no,” I lied, backing towards the door to the stairs where my Mattmate still lurked, unable to hear anything except my, I quote, ‘increasingly high-pitched voice’. “It’s fine! Just wanted to make sure you weren’t killing each other! Ha ha ha!”
“We are sorry,” reiterated the second Shirtless Hunk.
“No prob, bob,” said I, inexplicably, hating every syllable and also myself.
“Sorry!” the beautiful shirtless hunks kept saying as I fled backwards down the hall, desperately trying to escape the forcefield of their combined hunkiness, athleticism, and classic good looks. “Sorry!!!”
“It’s fine!” I continued to chant back, making my escape like some sort of confused crab in office wear. “No worries! Goodbye!”
AND THAT IS THE STORY OF HOW I, AN ANGRY RED GIRL IN A VERY UGLY UNIFORM, MET MY NEIGHBOURS, TWO MALE MODEL LOOKING MOTHERFUCKERS WHO WERE PROBABLY IN THAT ABERCROMBIE & FITCH WRESTLING ADVERT IN 2012 OR WHATEVER, AND FROM WHOM WE HAVE NOT HEARD A SINGLE SUBSEQUENT THUD, THE END
(Your picture was not posted)
