Friday, October 8

I'm not meeting these neighbors.

Dear Upstairs Neighbors...

We don't appreciate the ruckus.  We don't like the stomping.  We don't like the thuds.  I'm about to file a complaint with the HOA.  (Mr. Wookie's much calmer in his actions.  He claims the red hair sets off triggers at a much faster pace.)

But we do finding you and your husband's screaming entertaining on this Thursday evening.  I thought I was hearing things while Mr. Wookie watched the end of Outsourced, but no, you are, in fact, screaming at your husband.  And he at you.  We heard the "Get out!!!" loud and clear.  I just doubt that in our neighborhood that you're rocking stripper heels and missing some teeth.  And I don't feel the need to call the Police.  But still, keep your issues to yourself.  I can still hear you through the thick-ass ceiling.

And per Mr. Wookie, the glass to the ceiling didn't work.

I can't even try to sleep in our bedroom because all I hear is her nagging and screaming.  That's not what I like to dream about when on the cusp of sleep.  I like to dream of pajama pants that fit my inseam, of free crates of Skyy vodka landing on my doorstep, and of stalking celebrities in Calabasas, California.  Hello Kardashians...

1 comment:

  1. I contend marital un-bliss is better than the tribal councils the neighbors we had in Alexandria would hold.
    They were complete with drumming singing and flute-y things.

    Also, we had a shared fire escape - and they would let their kids play in it at awful hours. Horrid.
    I'm getting a twitch thinking about it...