Untouchable, Bitch

At work, I get a half-hour break every two hours or so.

During breaks, all casino employees are pretty much required to go to the break room, which is connected to the cafeteria. Some of them decide to enjoy a few casino games on their breaks from sites like www.paybyphonecasino.uk because they love the games they work in or around.

The break room is really a series of rooms, so while I might not have a choice of where I go during my breaks, I still get a choice of where I want to spend my thirty minutes in the confines of those few rooms.

I can go on the outside deck, which is above the Atlantic City Boardwalk and overlooks the ocean. I typically only do this on my first break during my 6:30AM shifts, and watch the sunrise* with a cup of coffee.
*It is not as poetically unmanly as one might think**. The smell of food in the morning makes me nauseous, so I need to go outside to get fresh air.

**But I cry anyway.

I can play a game of pool. It costs a dollar, though. And I am terrible at pool, so it would most likely take more than half an hour to complete a game.

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My Eye: Part III (Thanks, Ladies)

My dad showed up three hours later, and we set off to the eye doctor. I was now able to open my eyes for longer segments of time without wanting to die, but only while wearing my darkest pair of sunglasses.

Once we got there, I had to fill out two pages of paper work. Naturally.

Fortunately, it was no longer a breathless Baywatch type of scenario, but more of an I’m-on-the-top-of-Mount-Everest-and-its-constantly-much-harder-to-breathe type of situation. Honestly, it was much harder to endure listening to the people on The Chew talk about puddings as I waited for half an hour with my eyes closed.

“Youngman Brown?”

I opened my eyes to see a woman holding my chart, beckoning me to follow her. I stood up and walked towards her.

“Wait, Linda,” said one of the girls behind the desk. Then she whispered something to Linda, which I could not hear. Apparently, your other senses don’t become super-heightened.

Linda told me to take a seat in the waiting room again, which worried me. I heard muffled discussions taking place behind the desk and saw my folder being passed around, which also worried me.

Ten minutes later, Linda called me back up to the desk. Two other ladies stood there with her as she informed me that my insurance would not, in fact, cover my visit to their office. I knew this had happened to my friend in the past but didn’t think it would ever happen to me. My friend had a heart condition that he thought was covered by his insurance but then he found out they didn’t cover some of the expenses. He was luckily able to afford the bills but got a critical illness insurance quote and took out the best policy so he wouldn’t have this happen to him again.

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My Eye: Part II (Thanks, Dad)

(Missed Part I?  Click here to go back and catch up!)

My dad called me a couple hours later to see how I was doing.

I was doing the same: not well.

He told me to schedule a doctor’s appointment.  He was going to leave work and drive two hours to take me to the eye doctor, seeing as I lived in a ghost town and also could not drive myself – me being blind and all.

I was touched.  A tear of joy/pain/gratitude/my eye’s self-survival fell from my eye.

All I needed to do was schedule an appointment.  The only minor problem was that I couldn’t go to my normal doctor since I was currently out of the area, as I was currently staying in New Jersey.  My insurance is based in Pennsylvania, but has a fairly far-reaching network, allowing me to go to a doctor in New Jersey.

It was all still a pretty simple task.  Here’s what I needed to do:

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My Eye: Part I (Thanks, Mom)

Last month, before going to bed one night, I felt a slight discomfort after taking my right contact out. There was very little pain, but just enough that I said something along the line of “owchies!” and took note of it before going to sleep. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I woke up at 6AM and could not open my eye, which was not ordinary.

I actually couldn’t open my left eye either. When I forced my left eye open to try to see, it felt as if a thousand piranhas were eating away at my right eye.


It was not pleasant, to say the least. I said many things, much much worse than “owchies!”

I ran back to bed, wrapping a blanket around my head (so as to escape any form of light) and, naturally, assumed the fetal position. I remembered a friend of mine having to deal with an incident with their eyes, which turned out to be computer vision syndrome or something along those lines.

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I Hate My Neighbors: Part II (Stomp Stomp Armageddon)

Read I Hate My Neighbors: Part I (Kaboom).


Each morning, in my groggy state of wake, I sleepily envision one of my little next-door neighbors running down the steps, really working on her form.

It makes sense. Being in the Witness Protection Program, she is unable to join any extracurricular activities at school.

This is her gymnastics.

She gets to the third-from-last step, then leaps high into the air and does a half-lutz triple-axel thunder-dive. Sticking the landing, she raises her arms in the air like a Y, smiles, and then rotates ninety degrees and reestablishes her stance and smile.

kerri strug“A wonderful display of gymnastics,” that male gymnastics commentator says in my head as I drift back to sleep. “We will just have to wait and see what the judges score for this talented, young, home-schooled New Jersey native……….”



Sometimes, she forgets things upstairs and gets more chances for a perfect score.

As I lay there, tired and enraged, I wonder if they are trying to punish me for something. I think about my daily coming and goings and try to imagine what I sound like on their side of the wall. I mean, I thought I flushed the toilet quietly the night before.

To be honest, my toilet had been making some very strange noises at the time, so I began to worry about whether my neighbors could hear it too.

You see, every now and again my toilet would make a loud gurgling noise. Knowing when to call a plumber is not something that I had thought about often before but the louder my toilet became I decided to reach out to a plumbing expert for some advice.

Fortunately, my toilet was fixed and started to flush normally again immediately afterward. However, I could not help but wonder whether my formerly noisy toilet had upset my neighbors.

* * *

I’m sitting there, in that movie theatre, no longer by myself. I’m trying to pay attention to what is happening on the screen, but my eyes simply insist on working their peripherals.

Shoveling popcorn into his mouth. That is what this guy is doing. Right there next to me in this huge theatre. Shoveling popcorn into his mouth and making throaty noises as he attempts to use his larynx to dispel some stuck kernel shells.

He’s all settled into his seat, hunched down and legs spread like he is a woman at a gynecologist. If he wasn’t in my personal bubble before, he certainly is now.

That is when his wife and two daughters enter the theatre. His wife sits down on the other side of me, leans over, and asks what she missed.

He answers in full detail.

Previously, I was too busy paying attention to him, so I am interested in catching up on what I missed, but I am distracted again: his daughters have sat directly behind me and are kicking my chair whilst talking on their cell phones. To each other.

* * *

Two months ago, it was one of the girl’s birthdays.

One night, there were many cars outside and many children next door.

One of her presents was Dance Dance Revolution – a video game in which the players dance to coordinated moves. On my end, however, it is Stomp Stomp Armageddon.

Fortunately, the family’s obsession with this game (and it was an obsession) only lasted about a month before they moved onto phase two of RYMBL (Ruin Youngman Brown’s Life).

Their newest tradition, which is perhaps the worst of them all, occurs on Sunday mornings.

They blast music. From 11AM until 2PM, like clockwork.

As tired-eyed Petack asked during his visit: “Are we invited to the Sunday morning rave next door?”

However unbelievable it might be that such a massive amount of thunderous club music could be the setting for anything other than drug-induced merrymaking found typically at a rave, I have determined that it is something else entirely. It is cleaning day.

During the silent reprieve offered for a few seconds between songs, a vacuum can sometimes be heard.

That’s right, their music is amplified to a volume that is able to clearly be heard while standing on the other side of the house with a running vacuum in hand.

How loud could it possibly be, you ask?

I have documented it for you below:

flo rida

As evidenced above, they played the music so loud that I was able to successfully tag a song using Shazam.

Through a wall.

* * *

The movie is about halfway over, but the girls have grown tired of it. They are running around with sparklers, but the parents don’t seem to notice. Instead, mom and dad are lost in the movie, she to my left and he to my right. They are holding hands, imprisoning me with a human lap belt.

Inexplicably, one of the girls has found a gun and begins shooting the screen.


The projector shoots beams of light through the bullet holes to the wall beyond.


The other little cherub giggles as she blows the smoke from the rocket launcher perched on her shoulder.


She has destroyed the first few rows of the theatre.

A bit of smoke from the rocket launcher enters my lungs, and I let out a tiny cough.

Offended, the mom and dad turn to me, saying, “Shhhhhhh!”

“Sorry,” I whisper, then slink into my chair, embarrassed.

* * *

The moment I tagged the song through Shazam is when I realized that no clan of human beings could possibly be so inconsiderate without actually hating me for some reason.

Perhaps they are simply just angry about my presence. Nobody else lived on the entire street last winter, and they must have grown accustomed to it. But the fact that I go about my day-to-day life like a Ninja makes me wonder what, exactly, I do that must bother them so much.

They never hear me make a noise. Ever.

He is quiet. Too quiet.

That is what they think as they peek through their blinds and see me tip-toeing up the stairs. They look at each other and realize that they have been made. The Witness Protection Program has failed them. Clearly, someone taking such care to make so little noise is not someone who is striving to be a courteous neighbor, but someone who is attempting to avoid detection.

Whoever they are hiding from has found them, they must think. And I was hired to keep an eye on them. They hate me for it, which is why they make so much noise…

Yep, this is the only possible explanation.

But on the other hand… maybe they are just assholes.

-Youngman Brown

I Hate My Neighbors: Part I (Kaboom)

My neighbors’ door goes KABOOM.

It is unfortunate. I mean, a door is supposed to go SLAM, right?

Theirs doesn’t, though. There are two distinct syllables to this earth-shattering ear-bombardment: KA and BOOM. It is clear as day.

Or night. Whenever it is that they are slamming the door.

For the life of me I can’t figure out the physics of it. I mean, if the BOOM is the actual slamming of the door, then what is the KA? And if the KA is when door bangs shut, then what the hell is the BOOM?

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