Thursday, May 13, 2010

Won't you be my neighbor?

Dearest "Big Daddy" and "Dirty Girl",

You're both really nice people; I've met you a few times: in the parking lot of our apartment complex, once when you guys were cleaning your car, and the day that my cat fell off of my porch and into your's. Thanks again for being so understanding when I was hanging over your gate, in my racecar pajamas, yelling "PHOEBE BON QUI QUI, YOU BITCH, GET BACK HERE"...most people probably would have called the Police. You've both been incredibly patient with your obnoxious, part-hippie, furniture moving, hula-hooping neighbor (me), and I really appreciate that you handle the occasional noise so well. Thank you for not calling management or banging on your ceiling with a broomstick.

Your thankful neighbor,

PS: Congratulations on your growing family; it's so nice to see that you two are happily married and looking to reproduce: happy couples just enlighten my soul.

I apologize for being presumptuous, but procreation seems to be the only logical reason to have [very loud] sexual intercourse at 6:30 in the morning on Saturdays, 11:30 p.m. on weeknights, and around dinner time when my mother is visiting and I have to talk very loudly to avoid an awkward conversation with the woman who apparently partook in similar activities 19 years ago.

About a month and a half ago, it was about midnight and I had just fallen asleep…it had been one of those days where crawling into bed signifies stabbing the day in the heart with a giant, rusty butterknife…I was grateful for my slumber. I woke up about 7 minutes later to very loud screaming, banging, and the words “Give it to me, Big Daddy”. I went through approximately 6 different emotions in the span of the next FORTY-FIVE MINUTES: groggy, confused, entertained, submerged in hysterical laughter, irritated, and pissed off. I passed out and forgot about the incident until the next morning where I reasoned with myself, “Shelby, you sling hula-hoops around your house until the wee hours of the morning and they have never complained, you can let go of the one time they’ve had intercourse at an inappropriate volume”. And I did; I let it go…even when I saw the dominatrix in the parking lot that morning on my way to my car.

That weekend, my very good friend, Elizabeth, spent the night at my house. We were reading Cosmopolitan magazine, watching Catch and Release, and talking about cooties, estrogen, or horses when she said, “Shel, what’s that noise?” With my natural response being, “what noise?”, she said, “it sounds like someone is yelling”…”oh it’s probably just my frisky dingo neighbors”. Why am I always right? Thirty minutes of laughing, 8 obviously fake orgasms, and the 2 picture frames you knocked off of my wall later, Superman was finally done. Luckily I gave my cats the birds and the bees talk when they were younger or they would have been very confused.

I’ll admit, when this charade first began, I thought it was hilarious, entertaining, and probably a great alternative to pornography for the creepy guy that lives next door to you. It went from cheap amusement to inescapable misery pretty quickly; I’m almost positive that you are doing this on purpose now.

The worst part about all of this is that I’m not the only victim whose ears you are tainting with your loud, grunt-filled, 45-minute long sexcapades. Last night, I watched a family walking to their apartment from their vehicle while you two were recreating the Tommy Lee and Pam Anderson video with your window open…the parents shielded their children’s ears as they walked by. A few weeks ago, 3 teenage boys stood outside of your window for the entirety of the show; if you noticed this and did not stop, you are sick.

I had an epiphany last night: this isn’t the end…it can only get worse. There are a only few ways that this madness will stop: I move, you move, husband gets his penis chopped off by an angry neighbor and she goes to jail, husband and wife get a divorce, or this sex leads somewhere and you conceive. I know the former options sound worse, but trust me, the last option will probably lead to my demise. The only thing that would be worse than hearing your intercourse would be hearing the product of your intercourse: a crying shit-machine.

Please, for the love of God, keep the volume down and put a condom on. Consider this your warning. Thanks again for not reporting me to management; if you ever need a cup of sugar, I’m your girl.

Your disgruntled neighbor,

1 comment:

  1. I still vote for ball gag hung on their door.