The sun is out, the birds are singing, and there's a beautiful breeze—it's truly heavenly to be able to have the windows open during this still-smoke-free Seattle summer... until you, Wedgwood Trumpet Player, decide to stand outside and blow your mediocre-at-best trumpet to such jazzy standards as the Family Guy theme. You are THE WORST. I fantasize about standing outside with an air horn to meet you, note for note, with its blasts—so that you know just how annoying your uninvited brass noise is. Fuck you and your sense of entitlement in thinking our quiet neighborhood is somehow blessed to hear your cacophony. We live in a loud and busy city, and we deserve to bliss out on nature sounds whenever possible—not be forced to listen to your goddamn trumpet. Fuck you, Wedgwood Trumpet Player.

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