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Of all the things I expected to become in my life, it was never the “condo neighbor from hell.” I have lived in a condo for the past four months and love it because it is very soundproof. I realize I keep different hours than most adults in the building. I’m a night-owl, while the other residents seem to be morning birds. I’m very conscious of not making too much noise at night. I don’t turn my stereo or TV up loudly. I don’t start building projects or decide to do mass loads of laundry after midnight. Tonight, however, because DesperateHousewives was a repeat, I knew I would be watching the two hour finale of Survivor: Cook Island. To get in the mood, I stopped at Whole Foods and bought a coconut. Not any coconut, but one that said, Whacko Coconut. It had indentations where you were supposed to whack it and it would fall apart. So, at 1:00 a.m., I was hungry and decided to open the coconut. I took out my Joyce Chen cleaver and started to whack. After about 8 whacks, there was a knock on my door. It was my next door neighbor, whom in four months, I have never met or heard a peep from. I had woken him up. He asked what the hell I was doing. I said I was tryng to open a coconut. He just stared. I apologized and said I’d stop. So I took a regular knife to the coconut, rather than the cleaver, and immediately it slipped and sliced into my thumb. My coconut shell turned red. Dilemma time: Do I not eat my coconut, do I take it outside to whack it on the balcony or do I keep trying to silently knife it until it opens? It was too ponderous a question. Instead, I went to sleep. Dreaming of my coconut. Years ago, when I went to Bora Bora and Tahiti , the bars served coconut pieces the same way our bars put out peanut mix. Effortlessly and as freebies. Why can’t it be the same here? Now I have a neighbor who hates me and I didn’t get to enjoy the coconut and I’m stuck with bandaids all over my thumb. Next time I’ll just try out for Survivor. At least on Survivor Island, I could eat my coconut in peace.