Dear Fucktard Neighbor—Up until yesterday, I tolerated your habitual use of Xanax and compulsive consumption of Stella Artois, even while you were mumbling incoherencies and stop-motion stumbling up the stairs of our apartment building. Your spaghetti legs could be endearing if it weren't for the piss spot on your pants. It is unfortunate that your relatively good taste in most things is negated by your apparent inability to find your own apartment at 9 am. My pleasant Saturday morning ritual of flax cereal and yerba mate followed by a cigarette and a shower was "psycho-ed" short when I stepped dripping from my bathroom clad in a towel to find you nestled among my sheets and pillows. Admittedly, I forgot to lock my door, but your lame-ass explanation about sleepwalking and misdirection didn't quite add up. And all the gibberish about "Anton" and "the puzzle" and "he said to go to your neighbor's" frankly doesn't make sense. I suggest you remember which apartment is yours, because next time I find you in my bed, you'll be awoken by the police. —Anonymous
Blazed and Confused
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