An Open Letter to the Downstairs Neighbor

Dear Clueless Downstairs Neighbor,

On a Saturday afternoon, when Cat Power is being played semi-loudly, our car is in the driveway and yet we aren't answering the door, what do these clues say to you?

Apparently these signals mean nothing to you, since instead of waiting twenty minutes and trying the door again, you kept ringing the fucking doorbell until someone came down. Because you needed to get your registered-out-of-state-therefore-not-entitled-to-local-street-parking-permits truck out of the driveway RIGHT THEN. Do I need to put a fucking sock on the door handle, or would you miss that, too?

Look, I understand that you probably don't know how busy we are and how rarely we see each other and how therefore we only have a few, uh, windows of opportunity in any week. That's fine. But after you rang the doorbell the first ten times and no one came down, maybe you could have wondered why. Maybe you had to get to work, and it didn't occur to that taking your truck to work would involve getting it out of the driveway until three minutes before it was time to leave.

I'm not even going to hate on you for not having ever bothered to change your registration from NH to MA, because yes, one pays pretty dearly to re-register it in a new state and one also pays Massachusetts taxes for the privilege of owning a vehicle (in addition to all the other Mass taxes.) I'm broke too, you know, and you don't seem to use the truck very much and cutting this corner isn't really hurting anyone. EXCEPT FOR CERTAIN INSTANCES, like when you interrupt sex and ruin my afternoon because Dave has band practice and had to leave soon anyway. Thank you, Downstairs Dumbass, for thereby making my already difficult life a little less enjoyable.

Yours sincerely,

Your Upstairs Neighbor, Who Hopes You Feel Like Listening To The Ramones Played Very Loudly On Sundays Before 8 AM

P.S. Your kitten is pretty cute, I always say hello to him when he's playing in the window.