My Fucking Neighbours

"Jeezus, could you people come already?"

This young couple moved in upstairs. They must be new to cohabitation, because they fuck several times a night; alas, they have a very squeaky mattress. The guy seems to be quite athletic, maybe even a tad narcissistic, in his self-control; while I seldom hear female moans of pleasure, I do hear him workin' the bedsprings at a fairly rapid pace for twenty minutes, thirty minutes at time - a sustained and disagreeable racket indeed. I find myself rolling my eyes at the ceiling, feeling increasingly cooped-up and stressed-out: "Just get it over with, for chrissake." Cunka-cunka-cunka-cunka-cunka-cunka-cunka-cunka. An unwelcome backdrop for my nights alone, in no way enhancing my 5.1 set up when I try to watch a DVD, doing nothing to compliment the music I listen to or enhance my reading or meals. Eventually they grind to a stop. A few hours later: cunka-cunka-cunka-cunka - "Jeezus, they're at it again."

Mice, bedbugs, the guy who used to live up there and play Johnny Cash's "Cocaine Blues" three times in a day roughly four times a week. Now this. Sigh.