A Letter To The Buffalo Herd Upstairs

Hi guys,

As I write this, at least one of you is upstairs... walking. Walking as though it's your job. A job that requires you to place the full weight of your (seemingly) oversized body into each and every step. Imagine a graceful ballerina if you will. You're the exact opposite.... And so are your two roomies. The three of you cavort around that apartment as though you're re-enacting the buffalo hunt from Dances With Wolves, running from Kevin Costner (on that one, I'll cut you some slack), Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair. It's been like this for over a year now.

One of you (I don't know your name, so I'll call you "Head Buffalo"), seemed to have some semblance of courtesy and maturity about you. From what I gathered from the rather heated exchange between the three of you I heard through our ceiling about being a month late in rent a couple months ago, you seem to be the go-to gal. It's a shame really that things have worked out this way. I feel that in another lifetime, maybe in some carpeted alternate universe, you and I might've been friends. That all changed however when I heard you getting plowed by your 12 year-old boyfriend (a feat made even more miraculous by the fact you're not even the one living directly above me). May I remind you that, thanks to TimeWarner Cable, I do in fact have access to the National Geographic channel and can tune in anytime to see native buffalo screw in their natural habitat. I am in need of no further exposure to the mating rituals of grazing mammals. Thanks.

Then there's the gay one ("Gay Buffalo"). You, my friend, are proof positive that homosexuality does indeed exist in the animal kingdom. You are also a bit of a conundrum. I have seen you sashay in and out of the apartment and you appear to possess a small amount of poise. And yet, that poise mysteriously disappears the second you step foot in the apartment. I believe it is you who is currently upstairs plodding about in what can only be 25 lb. US Army issue combat boots. Perhaps these boots, coupled with your pet Pit Bull, General Tso (my loving name for him) are an attempt to make up for your perceived lack of masculinity. I don't know. I'm not a psychologist. But I will tell you this. If you've ever contemplated suicide for any reason, go for it. (Don't worry, I would make sure the General would be taken care of.)

Finally, there's the one that resides above me. I do not have a buffalo name for you. To be quite honest, I don't think a species like you has ever been discovered. Having only ever seen you from the back, I can only guess that through some freak of nature, a buffalo, a humpback whale, and a tyrannosaurus miraculously copulated and made... you. Fortunately for you, they left you with some fierce fashion sense, embedding in your genes the instinct to only wear stilettos at all times, day or night, rain or shine. (This is both unfortunate for me, and very unfortunate for said stilettos.) Now, I don't claim to have the ability of talking to footwear or knowing what goes through their heads, but having seen you from the rear, I feel I speak on their behalf when suggest you take. the fucking. things. OFF. Even if it's just for five minutes. A five minute reprieve would be heaven for them, and an absolute godsend for me. I am also assuming that you got your tyrannosaur's stumpy little arms, because it appears as though you do not have the ability to grasp things. At all. I'm not sure exactly what jewelry you wear, or what little knick-knacks you keep on your dresser (a jar of marbles??), but without fail, I hear (nay... feel) them hit your floor on a nightly basis. Might I suggest Velcro. Oh. And that chair made of hickory and wrought iron? Yeah... it's perfectly fine where it is. No need to slowly drag it from corner to corner on an hourly basis. And while you may think that those piano lessons your mom made you take when you were 4 are paying off, I'm here to tell you that I'm quite sick and tired of hearing the same three goddamned chords. If I want repetitiveness, I'll pop in an 'NSYNC album.

You my dears, are the bane of my existence. And I will not rest until I find the most effective and agonizing way to end you through the use of dental floss and plastic cooking ware.

Sincerely,

The Pissed Off Motherfucker Downstairs