“That Time I…” posts are true stories that am I retiring from my social repertoire. To honour them, I am committing them to text for the first time. Read stories about abortion, my awesome tattoo, and the infamous Tragic Hand Button.
The first time I noticed the song was playing, I didn’t hear it, I felt it. My bedroom floor began to rumble so I took off my headphones to determine the cause. I didn’t recognize the song blasting from the apartment below me – some aggressively bassy, chugging black metal – so I shrugged and put my headphones back on. I wasn’t phased. After all, it was the middle of the day and my downstairs neighbor hadn’t made a peep since I moved in. He was entitled to some noise-making. An hour later, as I left my room, his music was still going. I thought to myself, ‘Man, this music sucks. It all sounds the same.’