Response.

Dear Neighbour,

It certainly is ironic that you should be lecturing us about the decibel level in our apartment. We are sympathetic to your plight as a degenerate bar-staffer, but honestly cannot understand the incessant need for raucous sex at the oddest hours of the day. Yesterday you woke us up at three am with your moaning and "fuck yes"s. You then revealed details we could have lived without hearing. It's a hot apartment building, but turn down the fucking radiator and close the god-damn window.

To make matters worse, after having sex for way too long (I know you will brand us jealous, but come on: two hours of the same sounds has got to be some kind of record), your dumb-ass boyfriend goes out onto the balcony and smokes like a whole fricken' pack of clove cigarettes. We can't leave the patio door open for the cats because the whole place ends up smelling like a god-damn Indian restaurant. And by the way, your man looks like Buddy Holly got shwacked by James Dean's car and then shared a hospital room with Joey Ramone. Perhaps you've been too intoxicated to notice, but it's 2009, and all of those people are dead.

Tomorrow I fully expect you to interrupt my afternoon by waking up really late, getting into the shower, and mutilating some song of which you only know half the words. Do me a favour and don't sing the same verse over and over again. It's painful. I am officially putting a stop to any confidence and volume you may slowly build over the course of that twenty minutes. Eff off.

And for the record, I am not overweight, nor and elephant, and neither is my husband. I hope that we can put our differences behind us and live in peace.

Amy and Miguel

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Dear Amy and Miguel,

Yesterday you followed Huey Lewis and the News with Santana. Fuck you.

CC