I have a complicated relationship with quiet. My demands on quiet are probably not fair. Here are some of my rules.
Do not slurp, gulp, or chew loudly when you are eating near me. I can’t be responsible for any injuries.
Do not whisper something to me when I am on the phone with someone else and expect acknowledgment.
Do not neglect to tie your Timberlands, as untied Timberlands hang off the back of your heels and clunk against the floor with your every step. Pick up your feet.
Do not remove the table fan from my bedroom, even in the winter. I won’t be able to sleep and then I’ll be a monster of insomnia and annoy myself all day with my own growling.
Do not scream, in joy or in horror.
Do not play country music. Ever.
Do not slurp, gulp, or chew loudly when you are eating near me. I will not be your friend.
Do not mow your lawn. That’s it. Just don’t mow it.
Do not wander from room to room searching for me and calling my name when I’m still in the same room you saw me in last.
Do not tell me to turn down my club music at a party I’m throwing. Let J Lo get loud.
Do not let the soda glug into the glass from the two-liter bottle.
Do not put the white cap on a medicine vial; it makes an insufferable, hollow cupping sound.
Do not slurp, gulp, or chew loudly when you are eating near me. Actually, just don’t eat anywhere.
Do not click your pen against your teeth.
Do not scratch your freshly-sharpened pencil furiously across a piece of lined paper on top of a wobbly desk that squeaks.
Do not stick your hand in your pocket where you are hiding a bag of Sour Patch Kids and cause the bag to rustle.
Do not, if you are on The Bachelor, French kiss into your body mics.
Do not sing “Zombie” by the Cranberries.
Do not show me the YouTube video of baby bunnies nibbling bananas.
Do come and visit for dinner when I’m living in a one-room cabin with padded walls in Yosemite National Park. Hope you don’t mind taking your meal outside. (Don’t walk on the leaves.)