To the boy who lives downstairs

Hello,

I do not know your name.  I’m not even sure I know what you look like.  But there a few things I’ve been meaning to tell you.

First, and this is very important, you are not a very good guitar player.  I realize that one must practice to become better, but over the last 5 months I have noticed very little progress.  And believe me, I have heard it all.  Oh sure, you can now play full songs, so you no longer play the opening riff to “Day Tripper” over and over again for 45 minutes and believe me, I am grateful for that progress.  I don’t mean to be mean, but I would say your play still leaves something to be desired.

Secondly, practicing between the hours of 11 at night and 2 in the morning does not make you sound any better.  It simply makes me extraordinarily grumpy.  I have homework, classes, and a desire to sleep, on occasion.  Are you perhaps some kind of guitar-playing vampire, only able to come out during the night, sucking the very life out of me, one crappy guitar stroke at a time?

Finally, I have to ask you: is it really necessary to turn your amp up that high?  I bought a pair of ear plugs, and they block out a lot, but they cannot make my room stop shaking.  Do you think that playing louder will distract from the crappy?  Because it does not; it only makes it more painfully obvious.  Have you ever noticed the peculiar pounding sound coming from upstairs?  That is not the ghost of Keith Moon; it is me, passive-aggresively stomping on the ground.  It’s my subtle way of saying, “Turn that stupid thing down.”

— carmhelga

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