Had I known that I would be living next to YOU, madam, I would not have dumbly signed a two-year lease to live in this suburban apartment complex. You get Meals on Wheels, but you don't need it; you have two fake service dogs, TWO!; and you fake multiple disabilities. I'm pretty sure that if you actually did have leukemia, epilepsy, a broken back, or that egg-sized brain tumor like you claimed, you'd be dead by now. Luckily, I put in my 30-day notice, and I am about to blitz your ass with complaints. All the shit you get away with that I've spoken to you about countless times? I will report you: Every. Single. Time. You smoke on your patio, let your dog shit in my yard, make a peep after 10 p.m., let your meth-head ex park in the spot I pay for... EVERYTHING. I can't wait to get the hell out of here.

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