To the Young Woman who Lives on the Other Side of these Paper-Thin Walls

For a short while after high school I lived in a rather run down apartment in Cleveland with a friend of mine and his brother, who I believe still lives there.  It was an exciting experience, constantly wondering when the crack dealer down the hall would get busted or which one of the other tenets wasn't just weird and was actually completely insane.  It was all ruined, however, by our neighbor, a terrible shrew of a woman who I hope bad things happen to and no one else.  This is an open letter to that woman.


Another short aside, I thought this was supposed to be about senses in general, so smell doesn't factor in until the end, but I really needed to get this off my chest so I'm leaving all the sound stuff in.  Sorry, for the length, but she was such a bitch.  If you want to skip over the parts about sound, they are the 3rd, 4th, and 5th paragraphs. 

Hi, you don't know me, but I live with a dear friend of mine in the apartment next to you, and you may have seen me around.  I'm the vaguely ethnic kid that always looks disheveled, dirty, and always seems to be in a barely controlled rage.  My name's David, by the way, but that really doesn't matter.  What does matter however is the previously mentioned "barely controlled rage," of which you are the sole cause.

"What did I ever do to you?" you may ask, or more accurately  if our short conversation in the elevator is any indication of your speech patterns, "Da fuck I do to you, beaner?"  Well, I'm getting to that, but I do not know where to start.  I suppose what I first noticed would be best, so let's talk about your baby.

I want to preference this with that I have nothing against your son, and restate all of my hate rests solely on your shoulders.  It is you inability to control this child with which I have a problem.  Constantly I hear him crying, during the day and night, as if a siren is going off in my head.  WAAAAAH!  WAAAAH!  It's infuriating!  I do not have kids, nor do I ever want kids, and honestly if I had kids I would leave them to be raised by wolves, because they would probably be more responsible and caring parents.  I accept this, it is who I am.  However, during these nights at four o'clock in the morning when your son is composing a symphony of yelps, screams, and tears, I want to have kids.  I want to have kids, and then train them every day in martial arts, until they are cool calculated killing machines, simply so I may send them to school and have them kick your son's ass.

This rage is misplaced though, and recently I have shed this fantasy because it is not his fault.  It's your fault, all your fault.  I understand being a single mom is hard, but COME ON!  DO FUCKING SOMETHING!  Thanks to these walls which have the same thickness as a human hair, I don't just get to hear the piercing cries of your child, but also you turning up the volume on your TV as you avoid the responsibility you stumbled into.  Now, I do not just have to listen to your child slowly slide into anti-social personality disorder, but am also forced to listen to the Kardashians, prove that they are perhaps the only people in the world more shallow and uninteresting than you.  Do you know there are other channels besides E! VH1 and MTV?  Or have you lost your remote somewhere and I am trapped to listen to this dribble by osmosis.

Then there are they days when your boyfriend or baby-daddy or drug dealer or whoever his Kevin Federline looking ass is, comes over and a less white-trashy, nicer version of you, who I assume is your sister, takes your child away (at first I thought she was from child protective services, but when she came back I realized that either you two were related or that CPS returned your kid for being too annoying).  For almost twelve minutes, I have silence to enjoy my coffee, a good book, or even the happy fact that I'm not you, but then the Nelly starts and you and Jamie Kennedy's character from Malibu's Most Wanted start getting it on.  An aside, you sound like a horse giving birth, it's not sexy, and Cosmo is wrong.  Any semblance of peace and quiet that I loved is now gone, drown by your half enthusiastic cries and what sounds like a neanderthal masturbating on one of those rocking horses at playgrounds.  Luckily the notorious W.H.I.T (that guy your banging is a wigger, it needed to be said), only lasts like three or four minutes.

Perhaps if it were just the cavalcade of horrible sounds, I could deal with it.  I mean don't get me wrong, I'd still think you were an irresponsible inconsiderate dumb white trash inattentive mother, but I could deal with it.  However you are not just an irresponsible inconsiderate dumb etc etc, but also smelly.

The entire hallway smells vaguely of fish, and not fresh fish or well cooked fish, but of the rotting corpse of some leprous three-eyed radioactive pond scum left headless begging for death on the shores of the flaming Cayahoga. Originally, I did not attribute the smell to you, although it did waft from under your door, but now I am convinced that you are indeed the source.  This is because I have now spent time in an elevator with you, and been trapped with nothing less then the smell of Hadas if he were a fishmonger.

I would make a feminine hygiene joke at this point, but that would be almost as easy as you.



I digress, the only break from the smell of fish is the smell of the green shit filled diapers of your child. The smell of fish is my mother's cookies in a field of wild flowers served to me by the smell of success when compared to the bombs from your child's rancid colon which is possibly possessed by some horrible Baby-lonian shit demon.  Not to tell you how to raise your kid, but maybe wait until he has teeth before you feed him McDonald's.

I would rather live next to a tire factory than you, because at least a tire factory knows it smells bad.  You, on the other hand, seem completely unaware of this fact.  It's almost as if you don't notice the smell of low tide mixed with diarrhea and a child's sorrow.  Well, let me tell you something.  Everyone. Else. In. The. Building. Does. Even the crack heads that don't live here, but just buy from Derrick at the end of the hall notice.  Crack heads think you smell!  Let that sink in for a moment.  The sweaty and desperate crack heads who lie, cheat, steal. and kill for a high, actually pause for a moment from thinking about their addiction to go "Damn! That girl is smelly."

In closing, I hate you.  I hate you so fucking much.  If hate were baguettes and funny accents I would be France.  You are the worst person who ever walked this Earth.  Please give your sister your son, and jump in front of a bus.

Sincerely,
(and I do mean all of this with the most sincerity I can muster )
David <3

P.S. Your mom dresses you funny.