To the Neighbor With the Loud Mustang

A long rant about masculinity.

Sorry Mr. Rogers, but it is not a wonderful day in the neighborhood.

It certainly could have been. The siege of dreary, gray Pittsburgh days has temporarily ended, gifting us instead with a moderately warm and bright one, a day that, this time of year, is as scarce as hen’s teeth.

I opened the blinds, even cracked the window a little bit, letting the cool spring air flow into my apartment. I listened as the birds sang their songs, closed my eyes and pretended that I was not trapped in my home during a quarantine, but that all was calm and peaceful.

And then you started up your fucking Mustang.

Let’s clarify one thing. I don’t hate Mustangs. I’m not a “car guy,” but I know enough to say that yeah, sure a Mustang is a good car. So, no I’m not “anti-American,” I don’t hate Mustangs.

I do hate having to fit my SUV into a spot that’s too small for it because you’re too lazy to parallel park in front of your house, opting instead to park in front of mine. I hate the color of your car because bright orange doesn’t suit you — oranges are a delicious fruit, and you’re wearing a tank top in the middle of January because you’re too tough for a long-sleeve. I hate the way you wear sunglasses on the back of your…