Right now I’m experiencing various worrying symptoms: strong nausea, a slightly sore throat, possibly even a fever. But here’s the thing, I don’t actually admit it, I’m not going to do anything about it, and why? Well, that’s exactly what I asked myself just a couple of minutes ago.

Just how many times do you hear your colleges/co-workers/classmates complain about terrible headaches? You can’t actually tell that they’re having a headache by just looking at them, they’ll have to tell you that they have one. Complaining about it is a deliberate action.

By admitting (and accentuating) symptoms, you accomplish various goals. Most notably, you can decide that you are “incapable of doing any work”, and thus, excuse yourself from any work that might cross your path.

The reason why I don’t go around telling people how bad I feel is because I am aware that I have to finish the tasks I’m assigned to, that I wish to complete them, and thus, I don’t have the urge to tell everyone about my nausea.

So basically, unless you’re actually dying, admitting your symptoms to others means, more or less, that you’re simply being lazy.

So go back to work.

As some of you might have heard, I recognized two types of people, two types: absolute BDD-struck paranoid I-always-look-fugly-in-photographs wackos, and natural posers.

The proceeding, apparently, split into two groups, those that simply don’t like to be photographed and that’s it, and those that are simply afraid of you running around with a camera stuck to your face, and that’s the type that I hate the most.

Every now and then, they’ll come up with some really good photograph of themselves (well, in a good pose that is, composition and technique are a completely different story) and you’d start asking yourself I thought they hated photographs. Well there it is: they hate you.

So yeah, you run around try to get a photo of them, while they run away screaming, hiding behind objects, using clothes to hide their faces, and when you do get a photograph of them, it ends up looking like they were sniffing blocks.
Here’s a tip for you: stop running away from me. It’ll do you no good, because I will get a photograph of you at some point, it’s just a question of when exactly.

My next door neighbor. Typical blond sort of thing. She’s living with her mother, and some siblings most likely. I don’t know whether the father lives there, but there’s some man going in and out every now and then.

I remember the first day I saw her. I actually initiated a conversation as she went out of the house and down the stairway.

“Hi, I’m your new neighbor”, yeah, I actually said that. So she told me her name, which was like “Clara” or “Caroline” or “Catherine” or whatever it was then shook hands with me, the faminine way.
and kept on going.

Months later I realized that I’m going to hear much more from her than I thought.

As my bedroom shares two walls with the outside of the apartment, one wall I shared with their apartment directly, the other with the stairwell, the slamming of their door and conversations they had with each other on the way out were audible. As if they were right inside my bedroom.
The thing was that I could hear every opening and closing of their door, every guest coming in and going back out of her parties. Guests used to smoke, right outside from me, and strangely I could smell everything. At that point I didn’t care much about the noise actually.

Until last year. It was only during some very rough times that I began noticing the noise.

It became unbearable.

I wrote a letter on a piece of standard A4 paper in my handwriting, black ink, using very polite words in a very impolite way, forming my complaints about her awful parties.
I slid in through their mail slit.

The next day, her mom comes knocking, asking me whether I wanted to talk about it, I gave her a mean look and said “No. The issue is solved for me” and pretty much slammed the door in her face.

Ever since then, it’s pretty quiet.
What am I trying to say, then? Well, quite simple. Keep your fucking daughter quiet, and yes your daughter smokes too much pot and so do her friends, it sure smells like it from here. I still feel like reporting them to the commune.

Regret? No. I’ve done the right thing.