Sleepless in L.A.

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My neighbors suck. All of them. To my left, right and the lone hippie-gypsy, who entertains well into the wee hours of the next morning, who lives above me.

For over an hour now, my ceiling, her floorboards, have loudly squeaked announcing the arrival of yet another upright walking pet. Biding their time with loud conversations and empty libations.

I’ve stuffed my ears with two sets of earplugs to no avail. Even attempted a few yoga poses to calm the profane storm that was building.

One tree pose later I found myself knocking on Stevie Nicks door. Not the real one. Her I like. I’m talking about the waif with the glassed over eyes covered in thin colorful scarves who answered.

I don’t remember saying much more than her name and something about having to be up by 5:00. In the a.m.

Back in my apartment which feels more like a shoebox, I long for a late night gym sesh to help me unwind. I’ve missed the past two days of classes. Anxiety has begun to set in. I need a cup of Kava tea.

If I were a runner I’d lace up my Nike Lunar Elements and head out for a quick jaunt. Who am I kidding? Perhaps if I were being chased or had a basketball in hand, I could get my Carl Lewis on.

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