It is spring in Minneapolis…

…and I am exhausted.

I understand why people move to the exurbs now. I live by downtown Minneapolis and I feel perpetually harassed by junkies, crazies, and homeless people.

The apartment underneath mine is essentially a group home for Native Americans with substance abuse problems. I could not get a full night’s sleep last week because of the constant midnight screaming and crashes from downstairs. The commotion also wakes up the dogs who think: “WE ARE UP! POTTY TIME!” …so I end up walking them at 4am.

The 4am dog walks suck because the random gunfire has started up again. Last week I heard gunshots on two of the nighttime dog walks and once from my downstairs neighbors. I should just let my dogs shit in front of the Indians’ door. That’ll show them.

I feel like I live on the set of Grand Theft Auto. The sirens of ambulances and firetrucks are an omnipresent buzz. There are junkies passed out in the hallway and people having drug-trips in the middle of the street. The neighborhood tree lawns are seeded with broken glass from smashed car windows and there are shootouts at night (and occasionally during the middle of the day.)

But I do not live in the ghetto – my apartment building is surrounded by schools, trendy restaurants, and expensive condos.  There are million-dollar mansions next to group homes and shooting victims hunched in front of banquet halls. Some people call this a gentrifying or eclectic neighborhood, but I consider it bizarre.

So the Indians scream all night and I spend my days in a zombie-like state from the sleep deprivation. I’m tired. I’m unproductive. The work piles up and the cycle of suck begins until I feel cranky, whiny, and defeated. And don’t be fooled by their smiling faces –

…because these beasts choose my most feeble and upsetting moments to unleash the equivalent of a WW1 mustard gas attack. I’m exhausted, have tax law reading to do, and then I get smacked with 200-pounds of dog fart. It’s just awful. I’m the one sobbing the corner.

Actually, part of my problem is my inability to truly feel sorry for myself. (I want a pity party damn it!) It is impossible to feel sorry for myself when I am surrounded with so many impoverished people with chemical dependency and mental illness issues.

The drunk Indian passed-out across the street has real problems. The junkie dumpster diving for my credit card information has real problems. The guy shot down the block has real problems…

My love handles, tiredness, and farting dogs don’t seem to make the cut.

Some people call this “being grounded” but I am pretty sure that this outlook hurts me academically because I cannot muster as much “freak the fuck out” as some of my peers. I study until I understand the material, but I don’t put in the dramatic library time of some of my peers because a B- isn’t going to end my world.

What amuses me is that there is always a little thought in the back of my head of “maybe I should put in as much time as Jill Smith...” BUT LET ME BE VERY CLEAR: I think the students undergoing vitamin D deprivation because of their library time are ridiculous.

These students spend 80 hours a week studying on the off-chance that Fancy, Prestige, & Schmancy, LLC will stop laying off partners just long enough to condescend to hire them to work 80 hours a week.

My goodness. I couldn’t do it! I have a social life, exercise regime, and farting dogs to attend to… I just hope I don’t get mugged by the neighborhood junkies while doing so.