The body as art

According to my alarm clock, it's 10:51 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. I tried to go to bed almost an hour ago, but my spiffy new neighbors like their music and they like it loud.

Tonight they are listening to an exciting little album that is most certainly titled "Dirt Rockers of the 90s." I was in bed, under the covers, lights off, air conditioner set to cold. But, gosh darn don't ya know it, my shoulders started to stiffen and my heart started to thump as one long guitar solo after another screeched through my head and my neigbhbors' voices got louder and louder so they could hear each other over the noise.

My former neighbor was a young single certified public accountant who spent most of her nights at her boyfriend's house. She was frequently gone entire weekends, and, when she was home, she never made a sound. She's gone now, and my landlord rented to the neighbors from hell. Loud voices, lots of extra cars always jamming up the lot, daily guitar practice and, of course, 90s dirt rock, whatever the hell that is.

If they have good pot and promise to share, I may decide to cut them some slack. Until then, I'm pissed and awake and capturing "artistic" (grainy and blurry) images of myself with my sub-par webcam just to pass the time.