FUCK YOU, BRIAN!
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FUCK YOU, BRIAN! Also, please tell your neighbor to the right (your left) that I apologize for smashing their window.
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If Brian receives this: FUCK YOU!
If Brian’s Neighbor receives this: I need you to know that I’m standing directly across from Brian’s window. I’m even using my nondominant hand to aim before I release, so I shouldn’t be missing. That being said, I take full responsibility.
Rather than attempting to fix my throwing mechanics in real time at the cost of your window (which unfortunately I can’t cover), I’ll move to stand across from Brian’s other neighbor’s window before throwing the next brick. It should still veer right, thus going to Brian. See attached diagram.
Sorry about this. It won’t happen again.
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FUCK YOU, BRIAN!
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I literally don’t know how the hell I hit your window from this angle, Brian’s Neighbor. Do bricks abide by a different law of physics? I think I’m getting the yips. I’m going to close my eyes for the next one and see what happens.
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FUCK YOU, BRIAN!
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I missed what happened because my eyes were closed. However, based on the sound of glass shattering and the now-expanded hole in your window, I can guess. If one more brick goes to you, Brian’s Neighbor, there’s a greater force at work here.
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There’s a greater force at work here. Did the greater force also compel Brian to dump me while I ate a singular pierogi with a toothpick? He ruined Costco for me. But perhaps it was all so I could connect with you, BN. I’m going to throw this one backwards!
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That confirms it. We’re cosmically linked. Maybe I’m meant to warn you about your neighbor, Brian. Avoid him at all costs. He can’t be trusted, which I should’ve known from the start. His Hinge dating intentions were “long-term relationship, open to short.”
But he charmed me—he always called baristas by their names, he kept his Adderall in 35 mm film canisters, and he had so many baseball caps that looked vintage but were actually brand new. His entire closet was filled with deliberately beat-up baseball caps. Where’d he keep his shoes? His jackets? His seasonal hats? He was so deep. I was desperately compelled, and I
– – –
I ran out of space on the last brick. As I was saying, I became obsessed. I could’ve just asked—I should’ve asked—but too much time had passed. I slept over just to sneak out of bed and scavenge the place for his outerwear. It was as though they had no storage, but simply waited in the ether to materialize on his body when he approached the front door. It haunted me.
Finally, months later, I stumbled upon the truth: a secret room, tucked behind a panel in his closet. It had his shoes, his jacket, and a shrine to Maroon 5. The most shocking part was the logistics. One sec… new brick.
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Was it a pre-existing secret room? How’d he find wax sculptures of the non-Levine members? Did his landlord know? But I didn’t want to ask; Brian was always sensitive about his renter’s agreement.
Still, he sensed I knew, but continued to insist that his favorite artist was Blood Orange. His shame corroded our relationship. He also had an emotional affair with an AI chatbot, but it was mainly the Maroon 5 thing.
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Hey, how old are you? Not to read too much into it, but I’m feeling a vibe here. Me throwing bricks into your apartment, you not calling the cops on me… No one has, actually. This is lowkey a really sketchy area.
Maybe you could introduce yourself? Stick your head out of the window. I mean, there’s already a hole. I’m in a fragile yet incredibly self-possessed state, if that appeals to you.
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Okay, so I’m hearing sirens. Did I give you that idea? What kind of person can’t independently conclude to call the cops on someone smashing their window with bricks? This is the last one I’ll throw before fleeing into the night. You need to get it together, dude.
Also, please tell your neighbor to the left (your right), “FUCK YOU, BRIAN!”
Thanks!
