Dear teenage girl,
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Every night, you blast "My Immortal" at top volume into the wee hours. Once the song has wailed off it's last refrain and I think I am granted silence once again in the one o'clock hour (a lot to expect in West Hollywood, I know), you surprise me by rewinding it and playing it AGAIN... and again and again, and a-fucking-GAIN.
Do you get dumped by some thug boy, like, every other day????? You have to come home and drown your pubescent sorrows (and the sense of reason and sanity of everyone who lives within a block of you) in that hideous, childish song??? I mean - "Natural Woman", "Try a Little Tenderness"... something with at least a little genuine feeling!!!
It's not bad enough that you have to play that goddamned mediocre song over and over and over again, but you are so enraptured by the predictable "dramatic" crescendoes of simple composition and trite lyrics, that you have to HOWL ALONG with it. It wouldn't be so bad if you could hold a note as well as you hold my last fucking nerve. You are FLAT, sister. Flatter than Kansas. Flatter than a "Becker" plot. Flatter than a prepubescent anorexic girl swim team in a heated pool.
I understand that you are moved by music. Your tastes are not mine, I admit, but to each his own, and I am all for self-expression and identifying with what you will. I myself am moved by music, and occassionally enjoy singing in my apartment too, sometimes even at the top of my lungs. But you are a teenaged girl, and should not even be AWAKE at the hours on a schoolnight that you are awake, and someone should call child services on your mother for allowing you to be awake at all at one a.m. on a Monday, much less redundantly hollering sour notes out into the otherwise relatively peaceful night.
Tell your mother to get you a good set of headphones and/or singing lessons. While you definitely need lessons, it's true, I say that because you obviously have a passion for music that transcends all common courtesy for those that dwell within earshot - you'd make a perfect musician for your self-absorption alone. But I also say it because you obviously have a passion, and I encourage anyone to follow their's. Just not RIGHT UNDER MY WINDOW at ONE IN THE MORNING!
You need a proper outlet for your obvious pull toward being a vocalist. That proper outlet is not well past midnight in a relatively quiet residential area where people hold day jobs and have to be up in just a few hours. You yourself should be getting up for school soon.
Kid, what's the matter with you? Why is your mother not busting into your room, screaming "Turn that music down and quit your hollering! It's one in the morning!! WE HAVE NEIGHBORS!!" Your mother should be horsewhipped and forced to take classes on how to discipline her children and how to be a good neighbor.
Right now you are still a kid, under your parents' wings, and it's THEIR responsibility to teach you to treat your neighbors with a little courtesy. But since THEY won't, I'll tell you - It is really really RUDE to wake people, working, grown, struggling people, out of a dead sleep to warble along with that stupid fucking song for the eighty seventh time. I swear, I'm not exaggerating - in case you weren't aware, last time you did it (Sunday night), I heard the song restart 16 times back to back, and finally, at 12:25 a.m. (early for you, you were just getting warmed up and actually KINDA close to the actual notes, I know, but) I could take it no longer.
Yes, that was me that screamed at you out her window. I'm sure you thought I was being a huge cunt, but really, I just had to get up early to go work a real job. Why? So I can pursue my own passion. A quiet one that involves pen and paper and intelligence, not empty feeling, lackluster composition and gratuitous, wincingly sour vibrato.
PLEASE be quiet. Everyone in the building (and the building behind ours) thinks you're rude, self-absorbed and improperly reared. And flat. I doubt the eighty four of us are wrong.
And really... we're all just tired grown ups and want to get some goddamn sleep. In fifteen years you'll understand, but please, take my word for it before you are awakened by a band of pissed-off thirty-something carolers who gather at your windowsill while you are on the brink of being swept off by the sandman into a cool summer night of sleep and dreaming about the boy behind you in Pre-Algebra class to howl out the most tone deaf medley of Chicago's "Keep on Lovin You", Phil Collins' "Against All Odds", and Christopher Cross' "Arthurs Theme". Or, we'll just belt out George Harrison's "Got My Mind Set on You" until you fill the bathtub with boiling water and dive in fully clothed with your stereo, still plugged into the wall, clutched to your overdeveloped breast in a desperate effort to end a hell you have never known, one you so blindly put US through.
If you don't know those songs, look them up. You're missing out on a whole era of disgustingly base heart-tugging mediocrity. Download them illegally. Play them. Sing along. Sing loudly - Just do it at a decent goddamn hour. And get some variety in your audio diet. If that's the only single you have, come on up to number 6 and I'll burn you some CD's. I just can't handle that dumb fucking song anymore. I heard it on TV tonight and almost threw my television set through your window.
The bitch upstairs who just wants
a courteous neighbor and a decent night's sleep.