A jihad against Neighbour from the floor below

Neighbour from the floor below

You always stand on the balcony when making phone calls; your voice is loud, jarring and annoying, and the things you say are idiotic. I don't mind.
Your dog (if that ten-pound fluffy white battery-operated little squaler can even be considered a dog) has a hysterical, nerve-wracking little bark and employs it all the time (and I can hear him even when he's not scuttling around the balcony). I don't mind.
You argue with your significant other at the wildest hours (2 a.m., 6 a.m., I've heard them all), you both shout at the top of your lungs (well, mostly it's you screaming everybody's ears out, but I'm trying not to be sexist here), you slam the doors and open them and slam them again, and are just plain insane. You make me awfully uncomfortable, but I don't mind.

But as my balcony door, straight above yours, is the only window-like opening I can open in the entire 20 square metres of my apartment, it drives me CRAZY each and every time you go out for a smoke, and end up filling my apartment with disgusting second-hand smoke, and I have to close the door and die of suffocation and heat in the middle of a 30°C heatstroke in May.

I HATE YOU AND YOUR BLOODY CIGARETTES.

I HATE YOU.

I'd wish for you to die a slow, painful death of lung cancer, but I'm pretty certain your doom will either be that hysterical little barkmachine of yours cracking up, or your unfortunate husband not being able to stand another second of your insane shrieking and screaming. And telephoning.

GO TO HELL, YOU CIGARETTE-SMOKING BITCH.
Declared by Glen on Wednesday, May 11, 2011