Can you hear me, lord? Then would you kindly smite apartment number 215? Surely you know the one, lord. It lies several stories above mine, and yet it still manages to blast unbelievably lame white boy metal music directly down into my apartment every single day. Heck, you've probably heard it too. The apartment with the headache-inducing bass line that continually drowns out the harp choir and wakes the cherubs up from their naps? That's the one. It's not even good metal. Have you ever heard really bad metal? It's not only headache-inducing, it's aneurism-inducing. I'm still debating whether or not to leave a note somewhere around the idiot's doorstep, lord. Said note would probably read something like,

Not So Dear Idiot,

Your daily crapfest of music is too loud. Turn it down for the love of a smiting god, you clodhopping, cliché-ridden twit.

Disrespectfully,
Your Very Unmerry Neighbor

Brief and bitter, surely that's the way. Besides, lord, some of us are mortally unable to communicate as artistically as you. I have yet to master the dignified poetry of a burning bush, let alone the omnidextrous tearing of a temple curtain. So I might as well complain. My life is boring and uncertain and uncompanionated, my Renaissance Woman Reserves of inspiration are at an all-time low, and worst of all, my neighbors are noisy. After all, it's not as though the country is climbing into yet another hell-bound handbasket, or that the entire world seems to be drowning in a media-oversaturated cesspool of apathy, or that there are far more important issues to deal with other than my own little non-curtained sphere of influence. Oh the clarity. The clarity.

Ah, the odd n' simple things.

Deep in the murky depths of our family garage during a visit home this weekend, I happened upon a green plastic bottle of bubble solution with its pink wand still intact. It was like a priceless antique from another world -- something I hadn't seen since the age of five, six, seven. Eight, perhaps. And so, voila! Childhood indulgence resulted, as I blew bubbles and remembered older days of spinning in a circle with wand outstretched like a fairy princess spreading fairy princess dust. It was one of those ridiculous Hallmark moments, of course. And it wasn't completely private, either, so I was rather relieved when a group of tabby cats from the neighboring yard popped out to chase my memory bubbles down from the air, pouncing like nimble feline reminders of reality.

Lately, you see, I sort of feel myself growing odder and odder. (On a good day, though, I feel more inclined to call it "eccentric." The English were kind enough to invent a cutesy word for "odd, " I suppose.) Then again, what exactly is non-odd, or normal? Bland, vanilla people who never do anything nonsensical, poetic, or amusing? Pool-tanning people? People whose names invariably end in the letter "i" and whose greatest memory goes no further than last Tuesday? If that's normal, then the vanilla people can keep it. I'd rather be a little odd, or a little eccentric, or at the very least, quippily insulting those who aren't either of them.