Neighbor

Taylor had an interesting neighbor. She had never seen him, but since the walls of their apartments were thinner than rice paper, she could hear every move he made. Not only him, but also the crazy woman from upstairs, who stomped around her living room every morning and called her daughter every Friday to check if she had fed her fish. She could also hear the couple who lived downstairs, newlyweds who spent their afternoons telling each other how in love they were, and the nights showing it. But her neighbor was the only one she liked.
She couldn't quite remember how it started out. One day she was going about her life as usual, and the next she was sitting at the end of the couch to be closer to the wall, so she could hear him. He got up around 10 during the week and left around 11:30. On the weekends he'd never wake up before 3 in the afternoon. He liked to play music when he cleaned the house. He didn't cook much, she assumed, cause every night at dinner time she could hear his microwave beeping. He never watched TV, but watched at least 3 movies every night. Every now and then he would bring his friends over, and they would drink, laugh and play loud music til the sun rose. Sometimes he brought lovers to the apartment. She could hear their quiet whispers and kisses but always left before things got more intense.
She found herself taking work home, so she could spend more time with him. She didn't go out as much anymore, cause she didn't want to miss anything. After a while, even the cackling of the crazy woman from upstairs wasn't so bad, as long as she could hear the sound of him typing something on his computer. She knew how weird it was, but she didn't care much. There was something just too enthralling about her neighbor for her to worry about anything else.
One day Taylor woke up and decided to clean the apartment. It had been a while since she had bothered, so she changed her sheets, did three loads of washing, cleaned the dishes and gathered all the rubbish into two big black bags. She was always careful not to make much noise though. Her neighbor had a friend over, and they were talking about some French movie they had watched the night before. Taylor didn't know anything about French movies, but the conversation fascinated her anyway. Calculating that the 5 minutes it would take her to get the rubbish and take it downstairs was not enough time for them to change the subject, she got her keys, put some slippers on and went outside. And there he was.
Apparently him and his friend had decided to leave. For a few seconds she looked at him. She had imagined him to have brown hair and smart glasses, but he was blonde with bright blue eyes. He had a full beard, and wore a checkered shirt and old-looking jeans. Noticing her staring, he looked at her and smiled.
"You're the girl that lives next door right? Wow, I can't believe we never saw each other before! I'm Jeph."
"I'm Taylor" she muttered, painfully conscious of how red her cheeks were turning.
"Cool. Hey I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I know I make a shitload of noise, and you're so quiet! I feel kinda awful."
"It's alright. I don't mind."
"Ok then. Well, if it gets too bad, just knock on the wall and I'll turn it down a bit". Another smile.
"Ok."
"Alright then. See you later."
Taylor stood there for a while after he left. Finally, she took the rubbish downstairs, went out and bought an Ipod. She didn't want to listen to him anymore. Turned out her 'neighbor' was way more interesting than Jeph.

Oh, parents.

When I was about 6 or 7, whenever me and my brother or me and my sister would argue or fight, Dad had a rather peculiar punishment. He would make me and my brother (or my sister) hug in the middle of the living room for half an hour. Now, 30 minutes is aeons for a 6 year old, so there we are, me and my brother (or sister) hating each others guts and having to stand there hugging. The beauty of it is that it worked. After 10 minutes we'd both realize that if we had to spend the rest of eternity hugging we might as well be nice to each other. And so 15 minutes later Dad let us go, and we'd be laughing and talking normally.

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I'm a Mama's Boy. I'm not ashamed of it by any means, it's just a fact. Mum always spoiled me a little bit, and I always knew I could go to her whenever I needed anything.
I started going to school when I was 3. School in Brazil starts at 7 AM, so at 6 mum would come in my bedroom and tell me I had to get up soon. I'd just go back to sleep. After a few minutes she'd come back, take me out of the bed, put me in the shower and bathe me. I slept through it. Then she'd lie me on her bed, put my uniform on me, carry me to the car, drive to the school, carry me to my classroom and hand me to my teacher, with me sleeping all the while. My teacher would put me on my desk and I wouldn't wake up til about 10, in time for recess.
And that happened every morning, Monday to Friday. And she had to be at work at 7:30 after all that. See what i mean when I say she spoiled me a little bit?






And for today's random news: I dropped the milk jug twice in a row at work today! I have no money! My flatmate is getting a game out today! I went out with my brother on the weekend! I found a flat on the internet that is just $68 per week!

Blargh

Post-drinking Distress Disorder should be a recognized illness. I mean shit. I could just be a normal person and wallow in my miserable life while drunk, but no, I have to wait for the next morning just to add it to the pressing headache, the body pains and the shame.
Sorry about that. It's just that in MatLand hangover = identity crisis, and the empty bottle of bourbon on my living room didn't treat me very well last night.

And now I feel like going all '13 year old girl who just discovered what a LiveJournal is' on you guys, so brace yourselves.
My mind is stupid. I'm not particularly dumb per se, but the inner workings of my brain make as much sense as, I don't know, buying an AbCircle Pro and expecting it to work. I can be a lovely bundle of joy and hope for the future in one day, and the next day I'm alone in my flat, wondering when everything went wrong while tossing up if taking a shower is reason enough to get my ass out of the couch. A normal person would deal with that by talking to someone, looking up puppies on the internet or drinking heavily. Not me. I tend to prefer a solid two or three days of self-hatred and misery with just a bit of heavy depression on the side to spice things up. And it sucks. Big time. But do I do anything to change it? Nope.

See, Post-drinking Distress Disorder should totally be recognized.






Edit: Forgot the unrelated news. Here they are: We had a big flat clean up on Monday! I've been drawing a lot! I can make espresso coffee now! The stupid Rugby World Cup is coming soon, and I'm dreading the thought of working through it! I had chilli beans, canned tomatoes and cheese for dinner!