Dear Neighbor In The Building Across From Us,
The red track lighting you have in your living room—of which I have a perfect view from my bedroom, because apparently neither of us believes in closing our blinds—PS, sorry about flashing you last week—is a bold choice.
I wonder if, from the inside view, it looks as discotheque-ish/devil’s lair-ish as it does from my angle? Because when the sun sets and darkness blankets the city as much as darkness can in a city, what with all the lights from cars and shops and life, the cherry red glow that emanates from your living room is quite distinct and almost seems to pulse with a life of its own.
I can’t tell if those red track lights are focused on something on your wall—I don’t see a TV, or a piece of art, so presumably they are simply focused on a blank wall? Though I do think I see the tips of plants peeking through the window, so now I’m wondering if you have some sort of greenhouse in the making going on in your loft apartment. Are you a budding horticulturalist?
Please Do Hide Your Light Under a Bushel,
Your Across the Parking Lot Neighbor, McPolish
Dear Neighbor One Floor Down and One Unit Over,
I’m sorry my dog always woofs at you every time you venture out onto the balcony to fire up the grill. It’s just that whatever you’re making smells delicious to her, much better than the kibble we feed her, even if we do douse said kibble with homemade chicken stock or mix in pureed pumpkin because God Forbid this dog eat plain kibble, what is she, an animal?
Anyway, she’s not woofing at you out of anger or because she thinks you’re going to rob us. She’s woofing because she’s demanding. Demanding that you give her some of your grilled meats. Demanding that you pay attention to her. Demanding that you just come on over here and let her give you a cuddle.
You’ll get used to it after awhile.
Your Neighbor With the Adorably Demanding Pibble, McP
DEAR ASSHATS ARGUING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET AT 3 AM ON SUNDAY MORNING,
GO THE F HOME AND FINISH YOUR FIGHT THERE OR SO HELP ME GOD I WILL PUNCH YOU SO HARD IN THE GUT YOU WILL BARF UP ALL THE TEQUILA YOU JUST DRANK AT THE MEXICAN RESTAURANT ACROSS THE STREET WHICH IS A TOTAL WASTE OF YOUR MONEY BUT REALLY I COULD GIVE A SHIT BECAUSE OH MY GOD NO ONE GIVES A CRAP ABOUT WHO SAID WHAT TO WHOM THIS IS NOT AN AUDITION FOR REAL HOUSEWIVES OF ANY CITY.
NO, I WILL NOT STOP YELLING UNTIL YOU GET THE HELL OUT OF MY AIRSPACE,
A VERY IRRITATED AND MCPOLISH BECAUSE SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU WAKE ME UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT?
Dear Neighbor at the End of the Hall,
You smoke a lot of weed.
Well, wait—I don’t actually know how MUCH you smoke, but by the smells wafting from your apartment that are smellable as soon as the elevator doors open, I can say that I know how FREQUENTLY you smoke. Which, to be fair, I’m not sure if it is actually frequent or not in comparison to pot smokers at large. So maybe frequent isn’t the right word, either. What I’m trying to say is that you smoke weed, and your neighbors know it.
And I’m not writing you this blog-letter (bletter?) to judge you about your weed consumption. I could give a shit, frankly, and I wish for your and others’ sake that pot was just made legal already. I’m writing you this letter simply to tell you….
Well, I don’t really have anything to tell you.
Have a nice day.
And sorry to bother you.
Your Down the Hall Neighbor and Condo Board Treasurer (Why You People Entrust Me With Your Money I’ll Never Know), McPolish