On our way to a party down the block at Mercedes' house last night, Bonnie and I were skipping along the sidewalk, looking and feeling adorable. Bonnie, so moved by her fabulousness, begins to belt out some song. As soon as she starts to scream her rendition, our uptight, humor-less, upstairs neighbors swing around the corner and practically run into us. Now finding us even more crazy and annoying than before, a feat once thought impossible, they hid their looks of horror and ran off down the street. We erupted into hysterics and Bonnie resumed her melody.
I'd normally feel far more embarrassed that our neighbors hate us so much, finding us loud, slutty, drunks. But this morning I awoke to the sounds of them having bad sex directly above me. Debating whether to suffocate myself with a pillow or stab myself in my ears with a handy pen, I was forced out of the warmth of my cozy bed into the frigid halls of 916A, where I turned on the gay radio station in an attempt to drown out disturbing sounds from above.
Sing away, Bon. We've got nothing to be embarrassed about ever again. We might leave the kegs to rot in the backyard. We might play Beyonce at 3am. But we will never commit an act as ungodly and unnatural as that which I heard this morning.