The complaint was filed on Tuesday: the new tenant in 7B is consuming all matter and light without proper approval from the board. The gravity of the situation cannot be understated (several committee members groaned at this, but it’s going in the minutes anyway). We’ve received noise complaints about the sound of space-time screaming, and Mrs. Henderson from 4A swears her poodle now exists in multiple quantum states simultaneously after walking too close to 7B’s door.
Here’s the thing about having a black hole for a neighbor: they never return your borrowed cups of sugar because they never return anything at all. The building’s recycling program has become theoretical physics. The maintenance guy keeps getting calls about the event horizon extending into the hallway, which is definitely against corridor width regulations. We’ve lost three mail carriers this month. They still deliver the mail somehow, probably from inside the singularity, but all the letters arrive either centuries too early or read in reverse.
The board has reviewed the lease agreement and found no specific clause prohibiting the collapse of all known physics into an infinitely dense point. However, section 5.3 clearly states “no structural modifications to the fabric of reality without written consent.” We sent a strongly worded letter about this. It got pulled into the accretion disk and came back as a complete works of Shakespeare that hasn’t been written yet.
Several residents have complained that their memories are being stretched like spaghetti whenever they pass 7B. Ms. Chen says her entire future has been redshifted. The super tried to fix the garbage disposal last week and now he’s younger than his own grandson. We’re still paying him, but the checks have to be post-dated to before the Big Bang.
The pizza delivery guy refuses to come to our building now because time moves differently on each floor. He says he’s tired of delivering pizzas that both haven’t been ordered yet and were consumed eons ago. Can’t blame him. The tip calculator doesn’t have a setting for temporal paradox.
We’ve tried to be reasonable. We sent the standard noise violation notice when the screaming void got too loud after 10 PM. We posted passive-aggressive notes about proper dimension-bending etiquette. We even organized a welcome brunch, but all the mimosas collapsed into their own mimosa-sized black holes, and now the community room has seventeen new dimensions, three of which smell like oranges.
The real estate agent who rented 7B keeps insisting that “infinite density” was clearly disclosed in the listing. She says we should be grateful – property values have technically become incalculable, which she’s trying to spin as a positive. The local coffee shop has started advertising “closest oat milk lattes to a singularity,” so maybe she has a point.
At least the black hole always pays rent on time, even if the checks are made of condensed starlight and quantum uncertainty. And it did help Mrs. Peterson from 2C find her lost cat – all lost cats eventually turn up in 7B, existing and not existing simultaneously with perfect feline indifference. They seem happy there, probably because time and space are just suggestions when you’re a cat anyway.
The board will reconvene next week to discuss the possibility of updating the bylaws to address cosmic phenomena. In the meantime, please remember to keep your personal timelines on a leash, and don’t feed the wormholes that have started appearing in the laundry room. The last thing we need is another lawsuit about causality violations in the common areas.
