The Man in the Stairs

Dear Man Living in the Stairwell of my Building,

Go away! Or at least go to another floor. We've talked, you and I. I've expressed my displeasure with you lounging in your cozy, concrete corner. It's a stairwell. Those are stairs. What you're sitting on while you pirate my internet signal for hours at a time is called THE STAIRS. I don't mind when I see you roaming the halls with the glazed over look of a lobotomy caricature. Even when I see you rumaging around the package room, behind the desk, which is clearly an intentional divider between residents and staff, I can forgive. But you can't just keep living in my stairs. After all, they're stairs. It's not an apartment. No one has ever lived there. I don't even have to check to see if that's true, because I know it is. They're stairs. You can't live there, it's not even a possibility. Yet, you have an apartment at the end of the hall. I know because I purposely avoid it, because the guy who lives in there is the fucking weirdo who is also LIVING IN MY STAIRS!

Also, no more guitar. Practicing the guitar is an innately selfish thing. Yet, you've chosen to practice in the stairs. Which would make sense if it were also the place you lived, but, as I think I've already established, is impossible due to the fact that they're stairs. Stairs can be in an apartment. True. I've had one. It was nice. Stairs can lead up to an apartment, as we see all over the city. However, stairs cannot be the entirety of your apartment, which is the case at hand. Another reason for you to consider moving back into your apartment. And please, take the guitar. There are two types of guitar players: famous ones and everyone else. If you were in the first category, we wouldn't be having this conversation. But you're not. You're just a guy with a guitar and a desire to annoy anyone within earshot, which is probably more people than you would think, given the accoustic properties of the stairwell. Yeah, I can hear that too. All of it. Every single terrible strum. Oh, you've started smoking in there too. Great. I'm pretty sure there's a window we can open...oh, wait, nope that's right, this is still the stairs. So I guess the smoke will just sit in here and concentrate so that I can almost puke as I walk over you on my way outside. Great. It's been a pleasure. Let's make sure we do this again real soon. Don't bother calling, I'll just stop by your stairs on my way home.