Venting

So my upstairs neighbors were apparently raised by crack-addicted wolves in an orphanage that had no doors and was situated between a train station and an airport.

Or they are just the worst narcisists ever.

Because, really, I can't think of any other explanation why they would think that it is okay to have parties several times a week---on weeknights---that involve loud people and louder music. Or why they would feel the need to bang around so much that they cause my dishes to rattle. Or why they they think I need to hear every word that they say. Or why they can't figure out how to CLOSE A DAMN DOOR. They either slam the doors shut or they don't bother closing the doors the whole way. Which wouldn't be so much of a problem if it was just their own door they didn't close. But they leave open the front door of the building. The door that is directly across from my front door. And it's winter. In Wisconsin. Which means that it is currently hella freakin' cold. And I already have enough drafts in my apartment. I can't keep my clothes in my closet because it is so cold in there. You could literally freeze meat. Then there's the whole security issue. But I guess they figure that any meth-addicted serial killers would start at the first-floor apartments. Our screams would alert them to flee the building. Except that the upstairs girls are young and pretty. I am old and not-so-much. And we all know that meth-addicted serial killers only attack the young and pretty. So hah!

(Security is an issue. I don't have tremendous faith in the single lock on the apartment doors. And I've had some sketchy characters try to talk their way into the building. Then again, they really probably were friends with the horrible, terrible, no-good neighbors.)

I called a realtor yesterday. I start looking at condos next weeks. Wish me luck!