I drunk you.

Nowhere in our lease, as I can tell, does it say, "will agree to live above a fucking bowling alley." I could be wrong - tedious contracts are not my cup of tea - but I'm fairly sure that the landlord doesn't expect my roommate and I to adopt an attitude of bemused tolerance to the happenings below us, particularly since the daytime soundtrack of our lives consists of the congress of various crackheads - who typically, in case you don't know, converse in the form of barely human shrieks.

Oh, college kids. Yeah, I was one of them once, but I don't recall having friends whose nightly idea of drunken wit was to walk outside and grunt as loudly as possible, perhaps in an effort to expurge several liters of Natty Lite while wavering next to my Corolla. I mean, my friends were more likely to be passionately expounding on T.S. Eliot, earnest and with a sheen of sweat on their brow, before suddenly frowning, and excusing themselves to go puke. Okay, it's possible I may be exaggerating (because all my friends weren't all that literate), and it may also be that I simply don't remember all of the times my friends and I were cringingly obnoxious, but still.

I hate my downstairs neighbors. I swear the next time they let one of their friends park in our driveway, I will do something about it, and the next time they keep me awake till 3:30 a.m., I will call the fuzz. The 5-0. Johnny Law. (Or I'll talk my roommate into doing it.)