I hate public holidays. I hate them with a grim, itching ferocity. I hate the fact that I work on them, but don’t receive penalty rates. I hate the lack of public transport and open shops so I can buy my little sandwiches. But most of all, neighbour of mine, I hate them because I know I am going to be kept awake all night by that satanic ritual you somehow believe is singing.
When we first moved in a few years ago, I remember introducing myself to you. You said ‘It’s a nice street. You won’t have any problems from me and my girlfriend either – we work hard during the week and party hard on the weekend.’ I very clearly explained that my household was the exact opposite of that, being that we always work weekends and we ‘party hard’ (watch Parks and Recreation) on weeknights, if we’re not working that too. Nowhere in that brief and singular encounter did you warn us about your propensity to play Pearl Jam covers on a steel stringed guitar as loud as you can until four in the morning.
I understand why your musical aspirations have been banished to the witching hour – if you had tried to play without night’s concealing darkness, I’m fairly sure you would have been lynched by an angry mob. I once heard a cat caught in barbed wire chew its own leg off over four agonizing hours before dying of blood loss, and that was still preferable to listening to you last night. (I thought it was having sex, if you’re wondering why I didn’t help it) Your song choice has reminded me not only that Powerfinger exist, but the name of some of their songs. I have nostalgia for Saturday night, where I was kept awake by that screaming harridan in the apartments overlooking our houses five hour, profanity laced rant against Jews. That was a holiday compared to you. That was my nirvana. (Not Nirvana, you butchered them too.)
What kind of awful life do you live? I can only imagine it is one crippled beneath the burden of your vast yen to be a musician. You spend your days boxed in a cubicle, collating data for a soy sauce import company – but it’s not who you are, man. You think your destiny is to be the next Eddie Vedder, or bass player from Matchbox 20. Unable to express yourself any other way, you wait for darkness to fall, so you can obnoxiously scream your pain into the night. You’re like Batman, if Batman was the worst thing ever. You’re the George Clooney Batman.
But pity is a young man’s game, and no matter how awful you find import/export, I still want you to die in an acid vat. Your music is so awful and dangerous that much like the T-1000, every trace of you must be erased from time. I understand now, that my entire life from now until I die, is just going to be an evolving version of me yelling ‘Get off my lawn.’ This is because of you. You are the reason my curmudgeon factor has aged out of sync with my youthful face. You are the reason I don’t give money to the homeless anymore.
But the suppurating injury on top of this lengthy insult is that because you have chosen public holidays, fucking, bullshit, public holidays as your time to manifest your frustrated desires, I am now left sitting here at work after a seething night of no sleep, with no coffee. Coffee doesn’t exist in the world of public holidays. I could forgive a lot if I was pumped full of delicious caffeine. But I’m not. I have no coffee.
You’re a dick-tornado, a whirling unwashed scrotum of horror.
Die with haste,