The chronic malcontent suffers a bout of misophonia

Lots of noise in the apartment next door. At first I thought the Love Shack had been invaded by an elephant. I couldn't believe my landlords would rent to an elephant. But they've rented to nutcases and wackjobs, so why not elephants? Ok, whatever. When I finally laid eyes on the new tenant, I was surprised to see a young, not overly large female. She just sounds like an elephant. Which is so weird, because she has a tiny little poodle who is completely silent.

So far, the new neighbor, ironically named Joy, is bringing no joy into my life. She stomps around on her hardwood floors with what sounds like careless, reckless abandon, early in the morning, late at night. She has no rugs. And she plays her stereo. Oh my gosh, her stereo. The thumping bass vibrates the air in my apartment. I don't hear the song, just the bass. It's like the subwoofer on a teenager's car stereo...you can feel it from half a mile away, even if you can't hear the music. I can't get away from it, the pounding of my neighbor's bass. In the tub, on the john, in my bed, at my computer, the thumping is everywhere. Argh.

I met her briefly by chance in the parking lot.

“By the way,” I said, after we had introduced ourselves and after I had greeted Bismark, the silent black poodle, “the walls in our place are paper thin. I can hear the bass on your stereo sometimes. Do you think you could turn the bass down?”

She made some noises that indicated to me either she didn't know how, or she didn't care, or perhaps both. I didn't have a good feeling about it.

Sure enough, since then she's continued to be noisy. Plus, she lets her dog poop in the backyard in the dark. And she left her laundry in the dryer (well, to be honest, I do that too, and so has every other tenant in the nine years I've lived here. I guess I'll forgive her that transgression. But she didn't clean the lint trap!) To top it all off, she sneezes incessantly (does she know the Willamette Valley is the grass seed and hayfever capital of the world?), and then she blows her nose like a trumpet. Sneeze, blow, repeat. Did I mention she stomps? And she plays her damn stereo. In other words, she's alive.

Tonight I was trying to write my zombie concept paper, you know, that stupid paper that won't lay down and die. Stomp, stomp, bang, crash. Ok, she's got a zest for life, I thought to myself. One can hardly fault a girl named Joy for living enthusiastically. Then the stereo came on. I felt rage well up within me. It was too early to pound on the wall—I figure after 10:00 pm I'm within my rights to pound on the wall, three warnings and then I call the cops. But it was only 7:30 pm. The air vibrated with the bass. And I vibrated with fury.

So I did what any passive aggressive worth her salt would do. I turned on my stereo, set the bass to MAX, and let it rip. New Order crashed through the place like a tidal wave, surprising even me. (I hardly ever turn up the volume.) The cat left the room. I sat there for a minute, savoring the assault. Take that, you... you, loud neighbor, you! I couldn't write with that racket going on, so I got up and jogged in place for a couple minutes until I felt my frustration ebb away. Wow, I have a pretty good stereo system. That thing was loud.

Eventually I couldn't take it, and I turned it down. Naturally, the bass of her stereo was still throbbing under the bass of my stereo. Dueling stereos. Defeated, I turned the thing off and plugged in the headphones of my mp3 player. I knew she would win. I have misophonia. I'm at a disadvantage. I could turn it up full blast, and she probably wouldn't care. She probably can sleep through anything. She probably doesn't mind if someone chews gum near her, or eats an apple, or crunches crunchy snacks in her classroom, or unwraps a crackly candy wrapper.... no, I bet none of those things drive her insane. Me, I'm a basket case, a cranky, snippy, snarky chronic malcontent. No wonder people think I'm a misanthrope. I don't hate you, really. I just can't stand the noise you make.

Where can I go where it's quiet? Sometimes I want to puncture my ear drums. But I'd still feel it, the relentless pounding of her stereo. Someday I'll find my cave, my desert shack, my battered RV, my little piece of peace and quiet. And if sweet Joy suddenly turns up dead, stuffed in the dryer, well, all I can say is, I wasn't in my right mind, and anyway, she deserved it.