The People Upstairs


I had a conversation with a happily married woman on Friday. She’s 32, been married 10 years, and knew from the moment she met her husband that they were meant to be together. Six weeks after they started dating, they got on a plane and headed to Vegas. I asked her for advice on marriage (just cause I don’t need it now, doesn’t mean I’ll never will) and one of the things she said was “don’t take advice from people who aren’t married. They are just not qualified to speak on it.”

In a sense, I agree. But I also think that just because you aren’t in a similar situation, doesn’t mean the advice of the single is meritless. Sometimes, I think, it takes an outside perspective to make sense of a matter.

Take the people upstairs from me; the ones that woke me up from a peaceful sleep on Friday at 3am with this 2-hour long argument. Those mofos need to get divorced—or at least try (more) counseling. Something’s got to give.

So I’m knocked out having this amazing dream about being at a Diddy party in the Hamptons. I’m in Diddy’s sprawling backyard at an all-white party with a guy friend and I’m sitting in the grass on a hill. Below me are like 200 hundred people mingling, drinking, and living it up. It’s a beautiful summer evening and MTV cameras are filming the festivities. All of the sudden, I look up the hill towards the mansion and see Diddy and Kim arguing in front of the patio with two of their kids present, the youngest two boys. He rears back—like sticks a leg back to steady himself-- raises his hand from way down by his knee and hurls it upward till it connects with Kim’s face.

The party freezes. Everyone hears the slap and they all just pause. The deejay stops, everything goes silent. Then complete pandemonium breaks out. Everyone starts fighting like a scene out of a movie. Just fists flying everywhere. All I can think is “the kids!” I run over with my friend following me, and grab up the smallest kid and throw him on my hip. My friend takes the other. It’s complete madness and my car is in valet, which will take forever to get to. But we gotta get out of here, so we run through the woods like Tony Soprano at the end of Season 5 until we reach this winding dark road.

A pickup truck comes by with three of my friends sitting in the front (there’s a backseat). The tallest person is sitting in the middle, which I can’t understand. They offer us a ride and we get in the back. The smallest kid is settled on my lap and appears to be sleep. The other one is fading out. So I take this time to speak freely and figure out where I’m going with these kids and I talk about the chaos at the party and the slap. As soon as I start talking the littlest one wakes up and starts laughing. I stop talking because I don’t want to him to get scared of what’s happening.

I tell the driver to drop us off at a familiar house in a neighborhood that looks like my parents’ back in Maryland. He does and I go inside (no clue whose house this is) and use the phone to call a hotel and also, track down the nanny to these kids so someone will know that I have them and they are safe. I call the Ritz and in a British accent I tel them that I am Amy Winehouse and that I am coming to the hotel and I have the Combs’ kids so put the room on Diddy’s account. They want to know why I have the kids instead of the parents or the nanny, but I am hesitant to explain because I don’t want the melee to reach the press. I’m on the phone arguing with these people to let us come and bill Sean instead of me. when I wake up suddenly to a loud bang and a rumble across the floor.


Then a loud, long scream. No words. Just a scream. Then running footsteps. Then nothing. Finally I hear a man’s voice with no bass.

“Stop it, [wife]! [Wife]! Stop it!”

Fuck! The neighbors are fighting again.