It started the very night you moved in above me, six months ago: You yelling at your wife, berating her nightly about all the things you've fucked up or misplaced in your boorish, loser life. I turn up my music whenever the yelling starts, hoping you'll realize I can hear every word. I've never heard you smack her around (I'd immediately be on the phone to police if I did), but I have recurring dreams about handing your wife pamphlets about shelters where she can go to get away from you. I need a shelter where I can go to get away from you, you Grateful Dead–listening, ironic-trucker-hat-wearing fat fuck. I cannot tolerate you for another minute. I've been keeping a log of all your tyrannical tirades and I'm turning it in to our landlord tomorrow, and you know he'll boot your ass out. I hope your young and beautiful wife comes to her senses and leaves your sorry ass.