There are three people living in the apartment below us. Two are a couple who fight a great deal, seemingly on a schedule. They strike me as yuppies in training. They will likely get married and have many affairs. Their roommate is a douchebag with a stoner laugh, a propensity for leaving his laundry in the washing machine for days at a time, and a fondness for playing guitar and singing on their porch. He's in a band that does covers of songs by Bon Jovi and The Steve Miller Band, but they "have three or four original songs at this point." The couple is moving out in August when the lease is up, but he's hoping to be able to find some roommates so he can stay. My heart is filled with hate for him, and if there's any justice, all of his pseudo-hippie pals will be locked into leases at co-ops or something and we'll get neighbors who don't make me want to shove pins in my eyes.

I'm a little cranky. Here's the kind of day I had: while I was waiting for the bus this evening, a skinny middle-aged guy with a beard, carrying a couple of manila folders, walked past me, giving me an odd, slightly hostile look, and I seriously thought he would just reach out and give me a shove when he walked past. It was an absurd thought, and of course he didn't, but I was ready for it. The day's earlier events had led me to expect nothing less.