Thank you for folding my laundry, please stop having sex.
You've been the only neighbor in my building to actually look me in the eye and say "hello" since I moved here two years ago. Thank you. When my laundry is done and you need to use the machine, instead of wadding it up and dumping it on the laundry room table I know it's you that folds my little black panties and places them neatly back in my basket. Thank you. You live next door to me and I've learned to live with your tacky plaster fish molds that sit next to your door on top of the fire alarm, probably causing a fire hazard. It's ok that you have awful taste. You're sixty years old, and you don't wear a bra which might be why your breasts and belt are on the same parallel, but hey, you smell like my grandma so I like you regardless. Also, is your hair naturally maroon? It matches your blush splendidly. Tammy Faye would be jealous.
Now recently I've noticed a man that made my high school geometry teacher look like Don Juan parking behind your car in our lot. He terrifies me and tucks his t shirts into his khaki pants that are hiked way too high up on his twinkie loving gut. The image of you two in the same room haunts me, but please...
For the love of Sweet Baby Jesus...
STOP fucking him when I'm home too!!
We are dealing with paper thin walls here! I hear every little breathy "Oh yes" and your t shirt tucking friend sounds like he's playing football instead of making love. Do you like that grunt he makes when he comes? Maybe I'm wrong, maybe you just really like to watch him pass gall stones because that's what it sounds like he's doing.
Gross. Stop. Please.
Amen for getting some at your age, but honestly, I'm gone every evening from 5:30 to midnight. Can you do it then?
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