To the Douchebag Below Me.

Dear Douche-From-Downstairs,

It’s me, your upstairs neighbor. That mousy girl with the short haircut that you only see scuttling in and out of the building when it’s dark outside (be that early in the morning or late at night). Yes, hello. I’m sure you don’t remember my face because you only see me after you’ve smoked two doobs with your room mate, but never fear. Yes, I live upstairs.

We really need to talk about your bass problem. Bass problem. Yeah, your thumping bass problem. You see, it’s really starting to be a drag. You’re really, what do they call it, cramping my style. I think the new phrase would be “you’re fucking up my swag.” Or something.

I get that you’re cool and nineteen and living on your own for the first time, but do you really want to risk losing your hearing by blasting bass for 14 hours a day? We can hear the bass when you’re playing Coldplay, for crying out loud.

 

So consider this a friendly but firm request to KNOCK IT OFF. If I have to try to sleep/eat/watch tv/read/exist through another minute of your constant buzzing–pun intended, my friend–I’m either going to tear your eyeballs out of your face or call the fuzz, depending on how much energy I have after trying to function above and around your unending bass assault.

 

Sincerely,

 

Your [Angry] Upstairs Neighbor