Parties are wonderful things, but I need to learn to control my intake of candies while celebrating. Particularly my intake of Sour Patch Kids, which I could refer to as the Food of the Gods.
I wish that you could live in my apartment, all of you, for a week or so each, so you could hear the neighboring sounds of our little corner of the world. We are fortunate to live on the top floor, and therefore don't get the requisite rolling-of-the-bowling-ball noises that come with downstairs living. The neighborly noises we get are much more pleasant.
Somewhere to our right lives a cat, an often despondently vocal cat, who cries piteously for attention and love. Now that we've figured out what it is, it's kind of sad but also kind of reassuring to hear: "at least he's not dead. He's got his health, and that's the most important thing."
To our left and down the hall a little ways there lives a clarinetist. A very dedicated clarinetist, who doesn't play twenty-four hours a day, but probably closer to ten than to one. At all hours of the day you can sit still and listen and hear him playing something or other. While we sometimes wonder how he can play that much without getting bored and finding something else to do, we enjoy living nearby, because it makes great background noise. Someday we will figure out which apartment he lives in, and go introduce ourselves to him. For now I will simply fall asleep to the soothing sounds of the clarinet, and thank my lucky stars we didn't move in next to a drummer.