Not That There's Anything Wrong With That

Two young gay men, with one job between them, no air conditioning and a bad relationship live in the apartment across the road from me. I know this because they fight, loudly and drunkenly, on their balcony at four in the morning about every third Friday night.

Sometimes the light-sleeping bigot downstairs from me joins in the fun, just to make sure nobody gets any rest if he can't.

I haven't called the cops yet, but I really wish the one with a job would just throw the other one out already. 'Cause, you know, there's just really no respect there.