Mag­got fac­tory apart­ment mu­tants


You four, or five or how­ever many, have moved into the place above me. You pile com­post garbage into the reg­u­lar garbage and let it pile up so high on your deck that mag­gots rain through my bed­room ceil­ing for three fuck­ing days.

You stomp around and up and down the stairs at 5am. Your friends blast their car stereos at the same time. You get mad when I turn up my mu­sic, though?

Fuck you. Stop pick­ing on me and fram­ing your­self as vic­tims, you mis­er­able pieces of shit.

You an­tag­o­nize the hell out of me, yet I am ab­so­lutely sure you don’t want a fight. But, I do know your friends want my apart­ment, as they have said as much to me.

Well fuck you. I grew up be­ing bul­lied. As an adult, I have been in armed stand offs, so a bunch of fuck­ing hip­pies isn’t about to scare me off from the one place I can af­ford and that pro­vides me with the shel­ter I de­sire—other than the dis­re­spect­ful lit­tle shits up stairs.

—Leave Me The Hell Alone

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