The downstairs neighbors are having a loud party. I mean loud. Shake the apartment, spook the cats loud. Everything that's not heavy is rattling. Used to be that apartment would reglarly play music pretty loud, but it was never like this. I figured a bunch of latchkey kids lived there, since that was who I ever saw go in or out. This sounds like a grown-up party, and a bunch of people I haven't seen yet. Different mix of music. People have been ringing the buzzer all night, asking to be let in.

Every now and again the music stops at the very beginning of a track and I sigh and think it's over, but I think they're just stopping a song they don't like and putting on what sounds like the exact same reggaeton hit. Emily met me when I came in, and offered to call 311. I did instead; she's been working pretty hard on papers. I felt bad for calling, though, and I feel worse now. It's not like this happens every weekend with this apartment, or something.

I'm thinking about the kids who live in this neighborhood, and about the ones in Fab's old neighborhood. They face plenty of crap in their lives. They need some time to unwind, and they might as well do it on the cheap. I talked to Fab earlier today. She's out on a date tonight. And if they were at a party like this? I wouldn't want to shut it down.

Sounds like they're dancing down there, and some of the salsa they're playing is pretty good, even if it's mixed with some profoundly awful reggaeton. Everyone's singing along at the top of their lungs. If the music goes back to being decent, I might go down and demand that if they're going to keep me up they might as well invite me in. I'm not bold enough -- what would the cops think if they found the complainant at the party, and she went back upstairs when things dispersed?

I don't want to be the snotty old lady upstairs, but I am. I've worn my dumpiest clothes and slopped around until I'd missed the roomies' invite to go to a movie. I've chickened out on two dates in two days, and sat by myself playing video games instead. I'm deep, deep in an ugly rut which is anathema to everything New York. It's unlikely I can clamber out of it to do something as unorthodox as cross the gentrification line for a house party I've already reported to the cops. So much for my mother's pride in me walking through Harlem after dark. Maybe I should start slow. Tea with some nice young man.

I guess I'm in mourning since my streak of heavy socializing ended -- Thanksgiving, with two halves of the family, big conference, hookups, playing host to Lindsay. The day after she left I was bawling into my pillow. Somehow losing all those people all of a sudden helped petty dreadfuls of the semester endgame gouge deep. I get up in the morning and can barely move.

Even though I'm not going down to dance, it's not like I don't benefit from the music. My teeth are on edge and I'm developing a headache, but what can I do? Certainly can't sleep. Ope! Sorry, Mr. Fate. Couldn't get any homework done last night, the downstairs neighbors threw the party to end all parties.

The cats have fallen asleep, finally. I guess that music has opened up a space for me that I wasn't letting myself take away from the projects which are slowly wearing me down. I'm going to go put together a few more things for the blog. I just renewed the domain name, so I guess I'm going to keep it going even though it's been so inactive. I've almost been fearful of writing, like I'm worried about what will come out. Or maybe it's just lost its attraction since I've started getting published so much again. It's work.

Guess I'll have to take some aspirin to survive. This music is really getting nauseating. Ope. There's some merengue... my third-least-favorite genre of Latin music, having been displaced by bachata and reggaeton since I moved to Washington Heights.