dailyeatings

“Like, I never realized it until know, but, like, you’re so cute. Fuck me, you’re beautiful!”

Below me live three party-hearty fraternity guys and a really skinny emo-chick who doesn’t look like she bathes often. They enjoy smoking and drinking together on the breezeway immediately outside my window. They also enjoy talking loudly while drunk or high, pontificating on such deep matters as the existence of extraterrestrial intelligences, military coverups, which band totally sold out, how much fun it is to fuck other people’s girlfriends, how God can possibly send people to hell because that would be, like, totally unfair and how they don’t believe in God anyways, not really, not since they got to college. Tonight is Bearded Guy’s turn to wax melodramatic about the the various ups and downs of his love life.

“You are, really. Totally. Except you’re like completely out of my league.”

Bearded Guy speaks with the sort of emphasis on each syllable that can only be brought about by excessive alcohol consumption; to each of his incresaingly blush-inducing statements, Unwashed Emo-girl replies in a measured, affectionately consoling way, as if she were an empathetic nurse or a mother. It sounds like she’s actually enjoying this, the whole mothering the bad boy part, not the having to deal with unrequited love from your rommate part.

“So, so, so if I were to meet, like somebody in my league, not like you, you’re totally so above me-no, it’s true, then I’d probably just fuck it all up, fuck it up.”

Earlier this semester, I had called the police about 5 times regarding noise problems from all their partying. Two separate times, the police cited them twice in one evening. I don’t understand why the first thing you do as freshmen is party at home. Once they had a live band performing in their living room, which with the reinforced paper that serves as drywall in my complex means they might as well have played in mine. During initiation week, they invited their entire pledge class over at midnight to perform one of the many ludicrous duties they received from their pledge masters via cell phone: translating a coded Greek message which contained specific instructions on how to bevel, paint and individually detail a brick by hand, one per pledge, all of which were to be completed by sunrise, no excuses. None of them had internet access, so their desperation to find any resource to help them translate a Greek passage bordered on the comical.

“When I start dating somebody, I like, put all of myself into her. I’m not talking about when, like, we’re just hooking up or like when I’m just fucking her.”

The fine schedule for noise violations in the city of Gainseville are as follows: Written warning upon first citation. $50 fine upon second citation. $100 fine upon third citation. $200 fine upon fourth citation. $400 fine and court appearance for every citation thereafter. Between the calls I, my sisters, my neighbors upstairs and the girls across the hall have made, they’ve been well into the $400 fine range for a good 4 months now. I once passed by one of the roommates as he was pushing a keg back into his car. He was on his cell phone. “Don’t worry about cops, my dad will pay the fine.” Apparently, after the third $400 fine, Daddy was less than pleased with how his money was being spent and the parties stopped.

“You’d never know from the way I act, but I, like have huge self esteem problems. Like, it’s so hard, to be like, real to girls about how I feel, you know?”

For several months, no partying. No exceptionally loud bass coming through the floor. No late night sessions of Dance Party USA. I was amazed. It seemed as if we’d reached some sort of uncommunicatively hostile cease-fire agreement without ever actually talking to one another in our entire careers as neighbors.

“Holy shit, her tits are like fucking, pffft, out to here, huge. Perfect.”

Tonight, my sisters reported a noise violation. Dance Party USA was back and was quickly broken up. Now they’re outside playing the regrettable drunken confessional game by my window. As funny as this exchange is, I would almost rather have the party. There’s no hotline for the police to come and break up a really stupid conversation.