War in a post-war building.

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Last night around midnight, my lovely neighbor-to-the-north decided it was the best time to declare war on her dusties. So she plugged in the vacuum and scraped it across her floor (read: my ceiling) for 45 minutes.

If you’ve never been in this lucky position, it sounds like someone is taking a saw to your piping while simultaneously scratching nails on all the chalkboards. I’d gone to bed at nine, knowing I’d have to be awake at the ungodly hour of 7o’clock, and you can imagine how frustrated I was at this.

So, naturally, I did what any rational adult would do and stomped and banged on the walls and screamed “shut the fuck up; I’ll kill you.” until I was satisfied that she’d heard me.

Maybe I’ll put a sign on the front door…

[glimpse]

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I have two jobs.  One of them is this glorious job as a sort-of assistant in a semi-fulltime-capacity, with a really, very cool person who does terrific work.  That’s all I’m allowed to say about that. 

 

The other job is a grimy position as a cleaning lady in Manhattan.  I don’t like to talk about it for obvious reasons, but this one night last week, I found myself in the offices of this other job – a place I avoid with all purpose.  But, there I am in this room with a bunch of fat Latina women with an attitude and a Bronx haircut , and the people who work there are children. All of them. My age, Harvard graduates – ALL WHITE and all beautiful – an office full of Sorority Girls and Frat Boys. As someone who fits more snugly within the grouping of the latter, I was quite uncomfortable.

 

 

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