Downstairs Neighbor Steve. Together we have straightened out the thumping and lumbering. We came to an agreement that this place appears to be built out of cardboard, and might fall off the hill at any time.

He pointed out he can hear everything I do, and I pointed out that I can hear everything he does, at which point he went white as a ghost beneath what I have to say is an extremely swarthy tan. So apparently he has a deadly secret. I wonder what it is? Something I overheard was interesting. But what? What?

He also claims he wasn’t home at 7 AM, which means… intrigue. Somebody was lumbering around downstairs. Maybe the place is haunted. This would explain some of the odd smells and probably the fact that Steve thinks I play guitar up here, and drums, which I definitely do not.

Yes, living here is a bit like living in a fairly bad mystery novel, full of suspicion and men named Steve.

And the odor of kitten diarrhea- turns out to have been elderly butter mingled with the sweet aroma of blueberry bagels. Man, that stuff is rank. I’d been wondering why my toast tasted kind of like socks.