Dear Neighbor Downstairs
Oh my, what a day it's been! I had to teach this morning early so I got up around 7:20 or so, which is fairly reasonable for the employed, and was out the door by 8:00am. What fun I had with the 3rd graders I have the pleasure of teaching the basics of creative writing to! They are so full of life and creativity. It fills me with endless joy and enthusiasm for the future of our country after a day of teaching!
However, my afternoon wasn't so jolly as I got some bad news. Oh the blow I took this afternoon after my husband read out loud to me yet another noise complaint from you, which is the third one. (I didn't feel the need to write you a letter for the second, since our landlord explained that she thought you may be one of those "people who just need to complain for attention") which made me feel sad for you. But now, dear neighbor, I've decided that you have crossed a boundary that few have ever crossed with a mother. You have hastily and unknowingly crossed into what many would refer to as "Shit Town".
Shit Town refers to the delicate space that you enter into when you anger a mama lion. I am a mama lion, see, and I take great pride in my...well, pride, if you will and at this point I insist that you do.
Your complaint, as I understand it, is that around 8:00am on a weekday you heard "the pitter-patter of little feet" which drove you over the edge. So much so that you were persuaded to record the sounds you heard from what you deemed as "the apartment above you." With the second complaint my husband and I explained to our building manager that we aren't usually up that early since our 18 month old, Bo, is never up before 8:30am. We're just lucky that way. However, on occasion I have to work in the morning! Ugh, I know right! It's like, what's my deal?! Trust me, I totally hear you, neighbor, but unfortunately in most cultures in order to feed and clothe my toddler I have to somehow bring in income, LIKE AN ASSHOLE!!! It's a shameful practice and my hope is that your complaints will somehow make a change in our society to push work times to noon or so, since you reported that "you work really late, and we're interrupting your sleep!"
My goodness, dear neighbor! What on earth do you do that an 8:00am pitter patter could injure you so? I did a little research and found a selection of answers. You are either a 1. Freelance Writer, 2. Air Traffic Controller, 3. Casino Dealer, 4. Firefighter, 5. Babysitter, 6. Mail Sorter.
What a list, right! You are a mystery wrapped in a tiny titted conundrum. After careful consideration about each of these professions it seems like the only logical conclusion is that you're either a mail sorter or an air traffic controller. Let me break down how I arrived at that, in case you're curious, which I'm sure you are, you playful spirit you!
You simply can't be a freelance writer, because that's what I am, and I work during normal hours. You know, after 8:00am and before happy hour. So that's not it.
You're not a casino dealer, because we live in LA and not Vegas or Reno, and you're not a firefighter or a babysitter, because you clearly lack normal human compassion for children or any other living thing, with the exception of your aging, giant dog, who the entire building feels awful for due to his incontinence and your lack of responsibility AND/OR cleaning products to sop up his runny poop that you dump from his doggy diaper into the front walk like the beacon of human class that you must be!
So I'm stuck on mail sorter or air traffic controller. An air traffic controller is supposed to be even keeled at all times, but according to this cracked.com article about personal experiences deals with a great deal of stress, which in turn, may consequently turn them into sullen, shit tossing, asshole fuckshit dickheads, so that tracks. But a mail sorter in turn sorts mail all fucking day and, if my imagination serves me, can only have an orgasm during a national emergency or if the stamp price rises astronomically, which also works out in your favor!
In any case, ole neighbor oh mine, I'm gonna need for you to take it down about eight million percent on the bitchy, unfounded complaints. Because one, they're unreasonable, as we are adults and get up before midday. Also my baby is a baby and you should be sending us muffin fucking baskets on a weekly basis because of how quiet and late sleeping she is. Third, you should know that you're what I refer to as "a piece of shit". You're a 20 something year old, spoiled, sour, bitter little fucking twat. You sulk around and even what I say hello to you, you pull your dirty hooded sweat shirt down over your blood shot eyes and pretend that you didn't hear me. Not only is that childish and lame, but your "pretending" skills are sub par at best. If you need some pointers, I used to teach a character development classes at The PIT in NYC, so hit me up, I'll give you the "I fucking hate your face" discount.
All in all neighbor, what I'd like to recommend is that you move out of an apartment building. Because this, my dear, is communal living. It's not ideal in the sense that there are a ton of people under one roof. Did you not know that before you moved in? Did you think this was just one big ass house you were moving into by yourself? Ugh, that's a bummer wake up call, eh?
In any case, please go fuck yourself and stop throwing your poor dogs runny shit in the walkway, you nasty, poorly raised, snatch.
Regards,
Amy
Oh my, what a day it's been! I had to teach this morning early so I got up around 7:20 or so, which is fairly reasonable for the employed, and was out the door by 8:00am. What fun I had with the 3rd graders I have the pleasure of teaching the basics of creative writing to! They are so full of life and creativity. It fills me with endless joy and enthusiasm for the future of our country after a day of teaching!
However, my afternoon wasn't so jolly as I got some bad news. Oh the blow I took this afternoon after my husband read out loud to me yet another noise complaint from you, which is the third one. (I didn't feel the need to write you a letter for the second, since our landlord explained that she thought you may be one of those "people who just need to complain for attention") which made me feel sad for you. But now, dear neighbor, I've decided that you have crossed a boundary that few have ever crossed with a mother. You have hastily and unknowingly crossed into what many would refer to as "Shit Town".
Shit Town refers to the delicate space that you enter into when you anger a mama lion. I am a mama lion, see, and I take great pride in my...well, pride, if you will and at this point I insist that you do.
Your complaint, as I understand it, is that around 8:00am on a weekday you heard "the pitter-patter of little feet" which drove you over the edge. So much so that you were persuaded to record the sounds you heard from what you deemed as "the apartment above you." With the second complaint my husband and I explained to our building manager that we aren't usually up that early since our 18 month old, Bo, is never up before 8:30am. We're just lucky that way. However, on occasion I have to work in the morning! Ugh, I know right! It's like, what's my deal?! Trust me, I totally hear you, neighbor, but unfortunately in most cultures in order to feed and clothe my toddler I have to somehow bring in income, LIKE AN ASSHOLE!!! It's a shameful practice and my hope is that your complaints will somehow make a change in our society to push work times to noon or so, since you reported that "you work really late, and we're interrupting your sleep!"
My goodness, dear neighbor! What on earth do you do that an 8:00am pitter patter could injure you so? I did a little research and found a selection of answers. You are either a 1. Freelance Writer, 2. Air Traffic Controller, 3. Casino Dealer, 4. Firefighter, 5. Babysitter, 6. Mail Sorter.
What a list, right! You are a mystery wrapped in a tiny titted conundrum. After careful consideration about each of these professions it seems like the only logical conclusion is that you're either a mail sorter or an air traffic controller. Let me break down how I arrived at that, in case you're curious, which I'm sure you are, you playful spirit you!
You simply can't be a freelance writer, because that's what I am, and I work during normal hours. You know, after 8:00am and before happy hour. So that's not it.
You're not a casino dealer, because we live in LA and not Vegas or Reno, and you're not a firefighter or a babysitter, because you clearly lack normal human compassion for children or any other living thing, with the exception of your aging, giant dog, who the entire building feels awful for due to his incontinence and your lack of responsibility AND/OR cleaning products to sop up his runny poop that you dump from his doggy diaper into the front walk like the beacon of human class that you must be!
So I'm stuck on mail sorter or air traffic controller. An air traffic controller is supposed to be even keeled at all times, but according to this cracked.com article about personal experiences deals with a great deal of stress, which in turn, may consequently turn them into sullen, shit tossing, asshole fuckshit dickheads, so that tracks. But a mail sorter in turn sorts mail all fucking day and, if my imagination serves me, can only have an orgasm during a national emergency or if the stamp price rises astronomically, which also works out in your favor!
In any case, ole neighbor oh mine, I'm gonna need for you to take it down about eight million percent on the bitchy, unfounded complaints. Because one, they're unreasonable, as we are adults and get up before midday. Also my baby is a baby and you should be sending us muffin fucking baskets on a weekly basis because of how quiet and late sleeping she is. Third, you should know that you're what I refer to as "a piece of shit". You're a 20 something year old, spoiled, sour, bitter little fucking twat. You sulk around and even what I say hello to you, you pull your dirty hooded sweat shirt down over your blood shot eyes and pretend that you didn't hear me. Not only is that childish and lame, but your "pretending" skills are sub par at best. If you need some pointers, I used to teach a character development classes at The PIT in NYC, so hit me up, I'll give you the "I fucking hate your face" discount.
All in all neighbor, what I'd like to recommend is that you move out of an apartment building. Because this, my dear, is communal living. It's not ideal in the sense that there are a ton of people under one roof. Did you not know that before you moved in? Did you think this was just one big ass house you were moving into by yourself? Ugh, that's a bummer wake up call, eh?
In any case, please go fuck yourself and stop throwing your poor dogs runny shit in the walkway, you nasty, poorly raised, snatch.
Regards,
Amy
Yes. Yes. Yes. This is amazing. Thank you. I just read this, topless, trying to nurse my 6.5 month old-hoping he would go the fuck to sleep but all he wants to do is jump up and down squeal and ramble while our upstairs neighbors "sleep". You fucking rule. I can't wait to hear if this trashtwat replies. Bravo, woman. Xoxoxoxoxo, Tina
ReplyDeleteI thought this was a truly lovely way to address your neighbors complaints.... right out of Hallmark Card Archives dealing with idiots. Ha ha
ReplyDelete