I don’t know how I manage to do it every time, but in the last three places I’ve lived, I’ve had the worst neighbors a soul could ever want. Two apartments ago, I lived above demonspawn. After that, well, I lived above demonspawn like I was Anne Frank. And now? I live across the street from demonspawn who reenact all the snap, crackle and pop of the Pearl Harbor attack every single evening since I’ve moved here.

Please note: it’s July 2 as I write this, and I feel as though my entire rented condo has traveled forward through time to July 4 because all I hear from outside are fireworks. Loud, crackling, exploding fireworks. Not the way you hear them when you’re watching them at a park on Independence Day, but the way you hear them if you’re a pyrotechnician setting them off yourself.

Apparently they’re legal here, and of course I had to move into a neighborhood full of fireworks enthusiasts. After all, why break my perfect record of having the most annoying neighbors in the world?

I can see my future neighbors now, for when I move again in a few years or so. To my left will be a group of terrorists. To my right, a marching band complete with drummers and brass musicians. Above me, the entire cast of Stomp. Below, a family of chain smokers and bad barbecuers who spend all their time on their patios, right below my open windows. And across the street? Horribly ugly nudists who like to leave all their windows open and their rooms well lit.

Augh! It’s enough to make me want to scream…

But I won’t because the neighbors might hear me.

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