I would like to preface this by saying that, generally speaking, I am a fan of music. I encourage people to pursue their musical ambitions. I am not generally bugged by loud noises, either, and I can honestly say that if you were practicing your drums at a decent hour, I would have very little complaint (but see below).
That being said, I would like to remind you that you and I are both residents of an apartment complex, and as such, we should be aware of those who live around us. What this means for you, unfortunately, is that there are certain times when practicing your drumming is a poor idea. Midnight on a weekday, for example, is probably not the time to be practicing - it may be perfectly fine when you play at your parents' place in the middle of rural nowhere, but in a grungy apartment in downtown Victoria, midnight drumming is a bad idea. You'll wake the homeless.
I remember last year, lying in bed at 11:30 pm, staring up at my ceiling. I wasn't particularly perturbed by your drumming at this point; it bugged me a little (I must admit) that you would be so inconsiderate as to play at such a late hour, but the sound itself was not the problem. However, my girlfriend at the time - who had to be at work for 5 am the next morning - was quite annoyed, and spent the better part of an hour ranting about the manner in which she would kill you. I was able to keep her away from the sharp knives, and eventually succeeded in calming her down.
Sir, you do not know me, but you should thank me, for it is very possible that I saved your life last year.
However, your drumming has only escalated since then. I can hear a piano playing as well during these late night drumming sessions, so I can only assume you are in some sort of band, and that this band is composed of people as equally insensitive to the presence of neighbours as yourself.
Again, when I started hearing these band practices, I was not truly annoyed. But as time has gone by, I've become increasingly agitated. Not so much at the volume, although - as I've said earlier - I find your inconsideration offensive. Instead, I am becoming more and more upset about the nature of the songs you practice.
You see, for the past year, you have been playing the same song.
I am sure you know it. It consists of you wailing on the bass drum in a slightly off-rhythm manner, while the piano plays a line that could have easily been lifted off the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. This line then proceeds into a slow, somewhat melodic piece, before once again regressing to some sort of major-scale march.
Sir, I beg you. Play another song. I mean no offence when I say this, but that song you play is horrible. I get it stuck in my head, and it won't get out. I dream about this piano line. And I'm not talking about good dreams. I'm talking about those dreams where you can hear circus music playing in the background, a mime is laughing at you on a carousel while spiders crawl out of your eyelids.
This is not like how I'll get The Beatles' Octopus' Garden stuck in my head for a day or two. Because, while that song is not particularly good, it is at least a cheerful, happy song. This is more like when I get that annoying song by Rihanna stuck in my head for days on end, to the point where I'm seriously debating drilling it out with some sort of blunt instrument. And then, when I finally get rid of the song through liberal use of alcohol and self-pleasuring around the hour, I'll soon thereafter hear the song play on a cell phone ringtone, and have to begin the entire process over again.
I do not want to hum your song, sir. And I'm currently on a vow to avoid as much self-pleasuring as possible.
Until recently, I worked for the BC Provincial Government, and my job was to help process applications for Security Guards (among other things). One day, while mailing out licences, I came across an address. After doing a double take, I realized that I was holding the licence of a worker that lived directly above my apartment. "This is the guy who plays the drums," I said to myself, shocked and surprised. What were the odds I would chance upon your information, after all?
I must admit, a mischievious grin played across my face. I imagined all sorts of ways I could abuse my power - I could "accidentally" forget to mail out your licence. I could get ahold of your phone number, and call you at 2 am and give you a taste of your own medicine. Or I could include a veiled threat in the envelope along with your licence.
I did none of these things, because I had taken an oath as a government worker. But I did have your name, and all of your relevant information, because I had fallen upon it and once seeing it, could not automatically forget it. I knew, though, as long as I was a government worker, I could not act upon the information I had, no matter how annoying your drumming and tone-deaf piano marches got.
Only now, I'm not a government worker. I'm an unemployed, pissed off, bored person.
Sir, I know a lot about you, through random chance. I know your name. I know where you work, and what you do at work. I know how much money you make (and I apologize), when and where you were born, your phone number, and your criminal background. And of course, I know where you live.
Dear sir.
Stop playing the fucking drums at midnight, or you will regret it.
Thank you, and have a great day.
(signed)
David S. Percival
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