A Letter to the Downstairs Neighbors

Dear Kind Souls,

I would like to thank you for your continual patience with us. I realize we are rather loud. Please understand: there are 6 of us up here, and only 3 are above 20 years old. Have you ever seen that many teenage women in one room? Things can get messy. And right now, 5 of those 6 are dealing with final exams. All without the aid of caffeine.

It may surprise you, dear neighbors, that none of us drink. None of us do drugs. We are all physically stone-cold sober. But I’m sure you’ve wondered a time or two what was going on up here. I’ll tell you the truth. We don’t drink because we’re Mormon. But more to the point, we don’t drink because we don’t need to. It’s in our blood already, somehow. We were born to scream strange things at each other and collapse on the floor with little warning because gravity suddenly switched directions. I’m not sure how this happens, but I hope you don’t hear the laughter too loudly through the floor.

So please know that we care. Even when we’re yelling at each other, we care. Even when we’re laughing at each other, we care. Even when you hear the pitter-patter of feet chasing one another in circles or the slamming of someone’s head in the shower door over and over, or the off-key singing of “Happy Birthday,” or sudden realizations of, “I’m not wearing any pants!”…we care. And we frequently wonder what our downstairs neighbors must think of us.

Try to think well of us. And while I can’t promise the madness will end any time soon, you’ve never yet come storming upstairs to confront us with a hockey mask and a chainsaw. And for that, we stand in awe.

With love,

219. ♥


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