An Open Letter To The Guys Who Live Upstairs From Me

Dear Guys Who Live Upstairs From Me,

Last night, you celebrated Saint Patrick’s Day as only you can – by drinking yourselves into oblivion, stomping around in what I can only assume are Frankenstein boots and then making painfully awkward love to girls whose mothers would be oh so disappointed.  How do I know that happened?  Well for one, I have near-superhuman hearing.  For another, our apartments have thinner walls than a tatami house.  So, after the worst night of sleep of my entire damn life, I feel obligated to mention a few things:

1. STFU.  Seriously.
2. Guy who sleeps directly above me, buy a new mattress.  One without rusty springs.  Unless you bedded that girl on a pile of scrap metal, a trip to Sit ‘n Sleep should be your one and only priority.
3. Girl who had sex with the guy who sleeps directly above me, you can do better.  Trust me.  You deserve a guy whose signature moves aren’t “Pump-Pump-Wheeze”, “Wheeze-Pump-Wheeze”, and “Wheeze-Wheeze-Thump”.  Whatever that last one was, you have my pity.
4. See item 1.

While the sound of rusty bedsprings, drunken leprechaun impersonations and – I’m pretty sure – the sound of one of you weeping is an improvement over the usual Rock Band “Sing And Stompathon” that we’ve come to expect, it doesn’t change the fact that you three are the Hitler of housemates.  Look – you’re law students, so I’m sure the term “Justifiable Homicide” is a familiar one.  If not, keep it up.   I promise you’ll find out what it means.

Best,

- Ryan