(Or how to go totally fucking insane in twelve easy steps)
Today’s offerings will be excruciating lite because:
- I have been housebound for three days and as a consequence I am low on material.
- Last night I went absolutely bat shit.
It takes a lot to rattle me. Life in New York Shitty has a way of knocking those sharp edges of intolerance clean off a person. But for those of you out there who wish to drive Miss Heather abso-FUCKING-lutely nuts (and you know who you are), here’s how to do it.
- Give Miss Heather a task, in this case waiting for a Fed Ex package to be delivered.
- Get a one yard container and place it under Miss Heather’s living room window.
- Starting at 9:00 a.m. sharp start flinging metal pipes into said dumpster.
- Be sure to make a sport of it. Slamdunks are not only encouraged, but they are mandatory.
- Accompany your manly acts of garbage disposal with color commentary such as “I’m the man!” and “$2,000?!? I can get a fucking whore for that kind of money!” If “Kristen” is reading this come on down to Greenpoint. I found you a client!
- Repeat items #4 and #5 until 5:30 p.m.
- Debt collection agencies: give me a ring. Often. Be sure to ask for “Julie Garcia” despite my repeated assertions that she doesn’t live here.
- Fed Ex: be sure to postpone your delivery until the next day. Do not inform me of this. We both know my only purpose in life is to wait for you to show up. It’s not like I have anything better to do anyway.
- Scrap metal collectors: once the sun begins to set it is your turn to shine! Please proceed to the dumpster (as mentioned in point #2) and fling its contents onto the sidewalk in the loudest manner possible.
- Mister Heather: fire up a documentary about East German Olympic athletes being used as guinea pigs for anabolic steroids. The mere sound of metal crashing onto the ground is not enough to render my efforts at writing futile. It must be accompanied with images of women who look like Dick Butkus.
- Dispatcher at 94th Precinct: When someone (in this case, Mr. Heather who fears I am about to go “Prisoner of Second Avenue” on someone’s ass) calls your direct number to complain about noise/suspicious activity, order him/her to call 911. You, being expected actually field a phone call by a lowly tax payer? The sheer fucking nerve.
- Make sure the mayhem (from pipes being thrown asunder, television, etc.) lasts for twelve straight hours, giving Miss Heather a headache that won’t quit.
Yup. If you want to get on my nerves this handy outline shows you how! Not only has it been proven effective in clinical studies but it also comes with a 100% money back guarantee. Which given I have provided this information totally free of charge— well, you know.