Credit: Kalah Allen

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

6 replies on “I, Anonymous”

  1. Requirements for this column:
    1. You should post something that mandates you to write anonymously.
    2. You need to absolutely amuse or fascinate us.

    This column hasn’t met these requirements in some time.

  2. Yeah, what’s anonymous about this? The target is supposed to know it’s about him.

    Sounds like a nice apartment complex though.

  4. Ah, no. This just sounds like someone who is going to head to ikea later in the afternoon. Nothing wrong with that. Oh, and there’s that slight smugness that you know finally that some more people will read you stuff when you refer them to this. Want to reference your blog in the comments for us all to read?

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