I DON̢۪T LIKE PEOPLE. That̢۪s why I live by myself, even though I̢۪m in the dorms.

Trick is, I don̢۪t exactly live by myself. There are three other guys who live in adjacent rooms. I share a bathroom with them, and leave them de facto living room privileges.

Despite the barest of crossover territory, there̢۪s a bit of ongoing drama among all of us here in Aspen 219.

One of us likes his music.

The rest of us complain about it to each other.

Rather than actually approach the ghetto-blasting truant with our grievances, we̢۪ve banged on walls and left a note.

What I find hilarious is that I̢۪m that inconsiderate roommate.

I know exactly why they think it̢۪s too loud. It̢۪s not because it̢۪s actually too loud.

Sure, sometimes my low-key Manhattan Transfer somehow segues to the ear-splittingly loud Back in Black — curse you, indiscriminating Party Shuffle — but the volume is usually very reasonable.

Two or three wall-bangings into the semester, I even turned my subwoofer down.

All the way.

At this point, I̢۪m not actually too loud. It̢۪s just that I leave my window and door open for ventilation.

My roommates, convinced I haven̢۪t bothered to improve and in search of silence, shut the living room door in frustration rather than ask me to close said door or window.

I have a feeling that my infrequent overnight playlist habit is more amplified by their assuredly constant complaining than by any sound system I̢۪ve ever owned.

I’m not worried about it — I leave them well enough alone otherwise. If they don’t make the attempt to talk to me, it’s obviously not that big of an issue.

I figure that the only kind of roommate issues that matter are those that culminate in some kind of conversation.

If I or some jerk like myself ever becomes your roommate, you̢۪d be well-advised to keep that in mind.

I don̢۪t even know them that well, myself.

If I know that one of my roommates is named Travis, it̢۪s only because some R.A. garished up our names with construction paper and taped them to the front door.

I̢۪ve said just about as many words to them as I have noise complaints. I̢۪m at about seven for each.

I keep a tally.

Between the five times I’ve heard walls or doors banged on, the one surreptitious note left on my desk and the sole actual human interaction at the beginning of the semester, I’ve said “Heyâ€Â twice and a casual yet friendly “How’s it going?â€Â once.

The note, though, was the funniest bit. I found it on my desk after I got out of the shower.

I had been listening to “Rubber Soulâ€Â straight through for the first time in a long while. I left my room — with the door open — and headed to the shower in anticipation of “Norwegian Wood.â€Â

I hate that song.

The note, on the other hand, was nicely written and lacked stupid accompaniment, yet double-underlined in places I̢۪d never have considered.

My kinder, more positive half wanted to praise the author̢۪s marvelous printing, ignoring the grammatical errors.

That didn̢۪t last long.

My other side, an anal-retentive grammar nazi, viciously strangled it.

“Keep Your Music Down,â€Â the note said. In smaller lettering, it continued, “Thank you from all the other that live here.â€Â

Even ignoring that individual people are a who and not a that, I’m really confused by the “all the otherâ€Â phrase.

All the other what?

Gerbils?

Laptop computers?

Functional illiterates who forget plurals when Microsoft Word can̢۪t fix it automatically?

Puzzling. I̢۪m not sure how to react. Maybe the next note will tell me that, too.