Dear fucktards upstairs,
I don't know what planet you live on, but here on Earth, any loud activity after midnight needs to be, uh, not done. This includes (brace yourselves, because I know how much you love this) vacuuming. Actually I specifically mean vaccuuming.
Why you get the urge to switch on that grinding, nerve-grating machine at 3 in the fucking morning is beyond me. But one thing is for certain. It has to STOP before I jump out of bed, race up the stairs and club you over the head with your beloved cleaning mechanism.
Seriously. What the hell are you thinking to actually think that vacuuming in the middle of the night is actually alright? Do you have no shard of courtesy in your body? Or are you really that retarded?
I'm going to guess that you are indeed challenged in all sorts of ways because this is the third time I've been woken up by your cleaning sprees. And this past time? It last 45 minutes for no good reason. I live in the apartment beneath you--I KNOW that the place isn't that big where it'd take FOURTY-FIVE fucking minutes to vacuum.
You are seriously disturbed.
And now, so am I. And I'm PMSing. So if I hear that damn vacuum one more time, you can bet that I'll storm upstairs and give you a piece of my mind. And that'll be more noisy than any piece of machinery you've ever encountered. Guaranteed.
Sincerely,
Krissy