Things that piss me off: "The Flute Master"
Again, my apologies for the lack of posts, but I have spent the past several weeks feeling sorry for myself and wallowing in boredom and self pity. Basically, I've been busy.
Upon reflection, I've decided to get back to the roots of KMS, things that piss me off. Today's blog "The Flute Master," will do just that. So without further rambling, allow me to paint an all too common picture for you....
It's been a typical long day at the office: boredom, irritation, female facial hair and obesity. Plus at lunch, someone ran over my foot with their 'rascal.' Finally, mercifully, the day drags to a close.
All I can think about is getting home, throwing on some sweats and relaxing with some delicious homemade fajitas and a Law and Order marathon.
Alas, this is not to be. As I am putting the finishing glob of sour cream on my fajita and settling in to the familiar 'ching-ching' of Law and Order. I hear an eerily nauseating sound emanating from below. Transfixed, and a bit disturbed, I lower the volume on the TV, put down my steaming fajita and investigate.
At first I think it could be an animal wailing. Perhaps it is a cat in heat, maybe a dying possum or mating raccoons. I look out the window, nothing. The more intently I listen, however, the more I realize that this awful sound could not possibly have been made by any living thing.
It is only upon my leaving the apartment for further exploration that I realize what it is. It is a flute; someone was playing, no massacring the flute in the appartment below. On that day, the Flute Master was born.
The Flute Master is a 6'4" very-gay Pakistani twenty something that lives in the apartment below me. I know that he is such because he knocked on my door the first night I lived in the building and asked in lilting speech for me to, "be mindful." I apparently was walking around too much after 9pm, sorry fruit-er Flute Master.
"Be mindful of what?" I responded (sound of door slamming).
I hoped that the torment of badly played minor scales and off-key versions of Pachbel's Canon wouldn't last.
How wrong I was. Every day and sometimes as late 10 or 11pm, the Flute Master blows hard on his metal pipe. When he isn't playing his flute, he enjoys having loud girly conversations with fag hags and blasting Paul Okenfold between 7-8am.
Believe me, the only thing worse than waking up to the not-so-soothing sounds of the 'unss factory' is doing so with an unwanted mental picture of the Flute Master prancing around his apartment and thoroughly enjoying the music. In turn, this image brings back other unpleasant memories, such as the piss-poor flute playing and any other encounter with this person.
Flute Master, you piss me off to no end. You are a terrible person.
Oh and Happy New Year.
Upon reflection, I've decided to get back to the roots of KMS, things that piss me off. Today's blog "The Flute Master," will do just that. So without further rambling, allow me to paint an all too common picture for you....
It's been a typical long day at the office: boredom, irritation, female facial hair and obesity. Plus at lunch, someone ran over my foot with their 'rascal.' Finally, mercifully, the day drags to a close.
All I can think about is getting home, throwing on some sweats and relaxing with some delicious homemade fajitas and a Law and Order marathon.
Alas, this is not to be. As I am putting the finishing glob of sour cream on my fajita and settling in to the familiar 'ching-ching' of Law and Order. I hear an eerily nauseating sound emanating from below. Transfixed, and a bit disturbed, I lower the volume on the TV, put down my steaming fajita and investigate.
At first I think it could be an animal wailing. Perhaps it is a cat in heat, maybe a dying possum or mating raccoons. I look out the window, nothing. The more intently I listen, however, the more I realize that this awful sound could not possibly have been made by any living thing.
It is only upon my leaving the apartment for further exploration that I realize what it is. It is a flute; someone was playing, no massacring the flute in the appartment below. On that day, the Flute Master was born.
The Flute Master is a 6'4" very-gay Pakistani twenty something that lives in the apartment below me. I know that he is such because he knocked on my door the first night I lived in the building and asked in lilting speech for me to, "be mindful." I apparently was walking around too much after 9pm, sorry fruit-er Flute Master.
"Be mindful of what?" I responded (sound of door slamming).
I hoped that the torment of badly played minor scales and off-key versions of Pachbel's Canon wouldn't last.
How wrong I was. Every day and sometimes as late 10 or 11pm, the Flute Master blows hard on his metal pipe. When he isn't playing his flute, he enjoys having loud girly conversations with fag hags and blasting Paul Okenfold between 7-8am.
Believe me, the only thing worse than waking up to the not-so-soothing sounds of the 'unss factory' is doing so with an unwanted mental picture of the Flute Master prancing around his apartment and thoroughly enjoying the music. In turn, this image brings back other unpleasant memories, such as the piss-poor flute playing and any other encounter with this person.
Flute Master, you piss me off to no end. You are a terrible person.
Oh and Happy New Year.
posted by D at 5:37 PM
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