Hello. I’m the guy that lives below you. You know, in that tiny apartment building, the one with the stairs right next to our bedroom door? Right, those stairs you insist upon stomping up and down precisely between the hours of 5-6 AM and 11-midnight. Well I’ve got something I need to say to you: I hate everything about your existence.
I hate that you spawned a child, who then grew to the age of three. I hate that he loses his shit every single goddamn morning when his mom leaves for work. Guess what I don’t do when my partner leaves in the morning? I don’t lie on my stomach on the floor, slamming my hands and feet while screaming and crying. Never once. I wish I had it in my character to forgive a small child for loving his mother but I don’t. Life’s tough, little guy. The sooner you learn “Instead of kisses, we get kicked,” the better.
I hate that you moved in last month and brought along your full-sized outdoor grill, two bikes, one of those stupid kid cages that hooks to your bike, and a random metal chair that serves no purpose.
I hate that you loiter around my first-floor windows and look in at me. Leave me alone while I play Age of Empires! Stop staring at me!
I hate that you wear the same tank top every day. Tank tops suck. You shouldn’t wear them ever.
Look, I’m sorry if I’m coming off as a “dick.” It was never my intention to have such horrible people live above me. Please forgive me.
In the words of the douchebag who called me “kid” in a bar when I was in grad school, who in response to me telling him he’s an asshole, replied: “Hey man, maybe we’d be friends in a different life.”
Thanks for reading.
