Thank You, Really

LISTEN UP, guitar boy: Your aimless, awkward strumming, which you feed through an amp at top decibel, which you imagine to be something better than typical, trite Williamsburgian crap-noise, makes our apartment vibrate. We've told you this, politely, a number of times; so have the other neighbors. Because we're the bigger man, we even rearranged the apartment so that our desk is away from the vibrating wall, but still, you invade our modest space. The other night, guitar boy, it was midnight, and we had to work early. When we told you about our situation, again politely, you huffed and puffed and stamped your foot—"I'm trying to work too, you know!"—then slammed the door in our face. Mayor Bloomberg doesn't look kindly on dilettantes with a sense of entitlement, for which we thank him. So when the cops respond to our second noise complaint, tell you to shut the fuck up and issue a ticket, we'll be happy to point out that a pair of headphones would've been cheaper.