Okay, so let's drop Cracked-inspired presentation for a moment and play about with Thought Catalog (even though it's sometimes a little too whiny as a whole which doesn't stop me reading it so whatever).
After a recent weekend party effort involving an impressive routine of sport watching, pre-drinking and night-on-the-towning, I came to the realisation that I'm a rather paranoid host, or maybe just a horrible neighbour (actually, yes, definitely the latter).
As it so happens, I worry about a lot of things related to hosting and living alone in a complex and stuff like that, especially since some sections of society may consider me a little weird. I mean, being weird is okay, I suppose, you just don't want to be both weird and inconsiderate. You know.
I had a moderately robust house party. I can imagine my neighbours hating on me somehow because my recent predrinking expedition had about seven guests inside my little studio apartment and I had the doors and windows open and we were playing noisy videogames and such. As a matter of fact, I (just barely) recall a point where we were drinking shots over round of Soul Calibur, and I was winning so hard that I was on the verge of alcohol poisoning. Also my one friend laughed really loud at one point because three people died at once in Spelunky and I was worried that the neighbours weren't Spelunky fans and perhaps assuming that we were laughing at them, which wouldn't do at all. So, granted, it was a Saturday evening. It was ten-thirty. And my lease technically states that noise hours last until 11pm on every day of the week. But sometimes, even now, the guilt keeps me awake at night.
Animals bark at me. Or rather, dogs bark at me. Occasionally cats. The big thing is not usually the barking itself (though again, cats), but rather the countless mutts which have absolutely no beef with mankind in general that cheerfully decide to bark at me and me alone with full gusto, often late at night, often while I happen to be dressed like a serial killer. And my neighbours probably just shake their heads and sigh whenever the dogs sound off, thinking, "I bet it's that creepy serial killer dude again, man I hate that guy." Sometimes, even now, the guilt keeps me awake at night.
I burn strong incense. I have this really effing powerful incense that my dear mum gave to me when I visited her over Christmas, but I'm scared of lighting more than the occasional stick because, hey, what if my landlord hates that? I mean, I've read and reread the lease agreement and everything seems straight and it doesn't seem to mention smoke or anything and oh god what if I burn down the entire suburb? I mean, Dragon's Blood is powerful stuff: I burn a quarter stick of it and feel like a damn Targaryen. Sometimes, even now, the guilt keeps me awake at night.
I chew too loudly. I have a rather awkward tendency to completely wolf food due to a childhood involving something the family affectionately termed as "Sibling Survival Dinners"*. That's not to say that I'm such a barbarian as to consume my meals in some slack-jawed, open-mouthed, social faux pas, but it does get uncomfortably loud because I basically attack food with something akin to actual, honest-to-goodness animal lust otherwise. I truly fear that the sound of my chewing has, on some occasions, robbed my entire complex of sleep. Forever. Sometimes, even now, the guilt keeps me awake at night.
I screamed at the top of my voice once, at about 2am. It was a Monday evening. I'd just died in Spelunky. You know, just as I was on the cusp of handing the Gold Mine Key to the Tunnel Man. So we all get that feeling, right? I cut off my shriek rather quickly, but I'm pretty sure I woke up at least a million babies in the neighbourhood. And, of course, 200% of all the damn dogs. And a few barking cats.
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*Involved a home-made fighting pit, a single slab of meat, several sharpened rocks and sometimes a knife