I do not love my neighbor

Since it’s 4:43 a.m. and I have been awake since my histrionic neighbor arrived home drunk and fighting, I figured I’d write about him here for posterity.

Look, neighbor. I’m really sorry you and your mother don’t get along, and I’m also really sorry you are unemployed and are fighting with your boyfriend. I’m also sorry you’ve chosen that haircut. But you have just robbed me of those crucial two remaining hours of sleep, and for that I resent you. I fought hard to fall asleep in the first place, and to then be so cruelly awakened to the sound of shrill argument and heavy pacing of feet that sound suspiciously like they’re wearing womens shoes (and though my eyes tell me otherwise, you also sound a lot like a woman) — it is awful. You, sir, are awful. And if you’re going to swear loudly, you really need to work on your delivery.


Fed up, I finally decided to say something to the neighbor and his friend. I was going to slip a note under the door, but fate and anger made different arrangements. Just as I reached my door, they came storming down the steps. I seized my chance, though the one with the lower-pitched voice had already passed my floor:

Me: Would you please be quiet? There are children and people who work in the morning in this building.
Him (blinking in confusion): It wasn’t me. It was him!
Me: That’s ridiculous. Go to sleep.

I shut my door, feeling like a grumpy old woman. Sigh.

“It wasn’t me” –what the hell was that?


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