Dear Girls Above Me: Inspired by a True Story Read Online Free PDF Page A

Customer,
After multiple attempts to contact you with no response, we do NOT regret to inform you that your cable will be terminated effective immediately due to multiple unpaid bills. This is great for our company because we are going to take even more money out of your pocket when you decide to turn your cable back on. Yay us!
Sincerely,
The Biggest Piece-of-Shit Cable Provider Ever
    I may have paraphrased a bit, but that was the gist of it. I had no immediate plans to deal with my bill, but it did give me an idea for my tweet. So I tried again:

Dear Girls Above Me,
I’m sorry that Chad isn’t responding to your text, but honestly, can you blame him?
    I pondered it for a few moments. Not my best work, but it felt impersonally personal enough to publish into the world. “Tweet,” I clicked. And with that, I had written my first letter to the girls above me.
THE GIRLS ON FASHION

Dear Girls Above Me,
“I saw a terrorist at Forever 21 today!” What?! “She was wearing sandals with socks!” A fashion terrorist. I should’ve known.

Dear Girls Above Me,
“If I don’t get a coat from Chanel’s winter collection I’m honestly going to kill myself.” Am I supposed to report this?

Dear Girls Above Me,
“Isn’t it weird that we use the same word for the devil as we do for the most fab fabric?” Are you talking about Satan and satin?

Dear Girls Above Me,
(screaming) “J. Lo, if you’re out there, what eyeliner do you use!?” It’s times like these I wish I had a sassy Latina accent.

Dear Girls Above Me,
“She’s wearing 5″ heels tonight? That bitch! Time to bust out my 5 3/4″ stilettos!” Shit just got real.

Dear Girls Above Me,
“If that bitch talks shit about me one more time, I’m gonna wear a white dress to her wedding.” Men use fists, women use fabric.

Dear Girls Above Me,
“This week I’m only going to talk to guys who have the same name as my favorite designers.” Say hi to Helmut from me.

CHAPTER FOUR
    I woke up the next morning at the crack of dawn to the vibration of Michael Jackson’s “Dirty Diana.” At first I thought it was coming from the girls above me. Do they ever fall asleep? I wondered. Where do they get all this energy from? Drugs seemed like the only logical explanation.
    But as the song’s melody continued and I slowly became more awake, I realized the sounds weren’t coming from above me; they were coming from inside my apartment. Unless a burglar with really good taste in music had broken into my living room and decided just to hang out and play some tunes, this could only have been coming from one person … my roommate, Pat.
    I met Pat while we were both getting our undergraduate degrees at Chapman University. I was accepted into the film program, but Pat had gone to obtain his bachelor’s degree in “leadership.” His academic path seemed to follow along the same lines as that of people who majored in communications, otherwise known as the “I have no fucking clue what I want to do with my life” degree. I constantlymade fun of Pat for choosing such a bullshit area of study, to which he would reply, “You mock me now, but when you’re in need of a leader, I won’t be there to show you the way.” I decided to take my chances.
    Pat and I have lived together for almost three years now. The plan was for him to temporarily stay in my spare room/office while he looked for a permanent place to live. He didn’t know many people in Los Angeles, so I felt the need to help him make a smooth transition from his hometown, Mukilteo, Washington, to the annoyingly bright lights of Hollywood. After a month had gone by with Pat, I noticed that my apartment had become quite a bit cleaner, the aroma had improved tremendously, and I would often find little sticky notes that would lead to other little sticky notes that would lead to fresh-squeezed orange juice with a tiny umbrella sticking out of it. A small umbrella in your morning drink is something that people would