Filled with testosterone and blood lust… this was not a time to annoy me.

I’ve worked on controlling my emotions, worked on them the way Oprah has worked on her weight over the years. It is an ongoing battle that I’m only now beginning to win. However, if you read my post before this on then you will see that I just went and watched 300 yesterday and it was all the fuel I needed to ignite my violent fires.

The sparks began around 11 when my upstairs neighbors began pacing around as if they were a bunch of school children waiting in line to pee. Step, step, step. Step, step, step. I imagine pathways being worn into the carpet from all that walking. As creative as my mind is, I cannot fathom, I cannot dream, I cannot event think of one single reason why a group of people would need to walk this much in a 675 square foot apartment.

At midnight I am still restless and slightly feverish from dehydration and too much sun on the previous day. I cannot sleep because of the constant noise above me. My head is heavy and pulsates and pounds rhythmically as if my heart is a drum and it is located inside my head.

2 AM approaches slowly and I wonder how I have withstood the noise, but even more shocking is that the noise, the stomping, the incessant walking has not ceased. It is madness.

3 AM. I am a demon in the bowels of hell and a hungry need to destroy. I do not have a baseball bat, but I’d like one only so I could feel the solid cacush of that bat exploding a skull like a ripe watermelon. I can already hear the sirens, I can see the lights flashing, I can feel the hot pieces of blood on my skin and I can smell it’s metallic smell. Everything is in slow motion as I once again climb the steps. My heart continues to pound in my head as I pound my fist on the door.

A young man answers. He looks like a collegiate. The room reeks of cigarettes. An older man looking forlorn, weary, burnt out, stands in the back eyes vacant and unapologetic.

“I can’t sleep, I’ve been listening to ya’ll all night, can you please keep it down.” I say the words and I am not nice. I don’t like to be mean, but there is a time when it is necessary.

“So sorry, so sorry, so sorry.” The mantra is repeated so quickly it loses any meaning. It reminds me of a kid who is not really remorseful, only upset that he is being told to stop.

I descend back into the abyss that has become my apartment. My prison. My hell. The noise continues. I lie there wide awake and angry. My emotions are still in check. I’ve been more than fair. A thought runs through my head, “How bad will prison be? Will my mom be upset?” I think about kicking the door down because apparently they do not understand how serious I am. I know now why people snap. In 30 seconds my life could change forever.

I wait and I listen and soon there is so much silence that I am overcome by it’s sanctuary. I am wrapped in it’s loving embrace and lifted away into a night of sleep that is not nearly long enough. But the dilemma remains, what can I do to make my neighbors understand that pushing me to a certain point is dangerous? A man can only stand the pressure for so long until he explodes, something’s gotta give.