This is my fucking nemesis:

I live in a neighborhood teeming with young children, so of course the business below my apartment employs a coin-operated horsey to swindle annoying post-hipster parents out of quarters.  Each ride lasts what I rationally believe to be about 60 seconds, although it’s hard to estimate because time slows to nearly a stop while the canned music plays: Dun! Duh, da-duh, da da da da, da na na na-nuh-nuh-ah! Again. And again.  And again.  And for two more hours after the school across the street lets out.

I like silence while I work.  I don’t like interruptions.  No phone calls.  No talking.  No radio.  No music.  No TV.  The click of the mouse and the rhythm of my typing are the only sounds with which I’m comfortable.  Not long ago, my girlfriend quit her job and spent a week with me in my apartment while I worked.  To this day she has no idea how close she came to a swift, brutal death.

But, my friends, I have won.  I’ve beaten life.  Because, after years of longing, I have finally purchased the one thing that makes me complete.  Behold:

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