I live in a pretty quiet neighborhood. Quiet enough that any addition to its ambient noise can be picked out pretty easily, whether it’s the squeal of children at play or the melodious song of the goddamned robins that ate all the blueberries in my garden this year. I hate those little red-breasted bastards.

Anyway.

While I was away on vacation, one of my neighbors installed a "wind chime" in his backyard. I encapsulate that in quotes because it’s not really a wind chime. It is, in fact, an ingenious device for inciting facial tics and, quite possibly, homicidal rage. It’s driving me mad.

This "chime" does not emit any sort of vibration that the human ear might find remotely soothing. Instead of the gentle gong of artfully tarnished copper pipes or the effervescent tinkle of ceramic pendants, this infernal object tortures all within earshot with a frenzied "dingalingading" sound. It is a sound not unlike that of a dainty little tea bell, if said tea bell was in the iron grip of some psychotic, epileptic masturbator rubbing one out while strapped to a running paint mixer.

Its tempo is so frenetic I was at first convinced the bell was attached to the collar of some small and irrepressibly frisky animal, like one of those kickable little yap-yap dogs some people are so enamored of, but said neighbor owns no such pet. Having no choice but to listen to the damned thing for days on end now, I have observed that the sound abates when the wind dies down, so it must be some sort of wind chime. Unfortunately, I live in a valley where trees growing at 45-degree angles are considered normal, so strong are the winds.

Ding-a-ling.