Dear Neighbors Whose Lawn Chairs are on Their Roof this
Morning:
I write you
for a couple of reasons. The first is a congratulations on a party well done.
Despite the fact that your roof slopes at a dangerous angle and the number of
empty beer cans littering your property leads me to believe your coordination
skills were subpar, watching the fireworks from atop your house was an
ingenious idea. The thrill of being so high (perhaps in more ways than one)
coupled with the colorful light show in the sky must have made for quite the
experience.
I can only
imagine the fun of being chocolate wasted on a warm summer night on a rooftop
with some of my closest friends. The alcohol consumption and the company
would’ve been fun enough. The fireworks, a bonus. But bravo to the mastermind
behind the rickety fold-up chairs on top of your half of the duplex. I know it
was a slamming party, and I can only wish I’d have been a part of it.
Which brings me to my next reason for writing you: Why the
heck didn’t you invite me? I’ve only been living here since you moved in, and
as a young, cute college girl, I see no reason for being left out of the fun. I
know we haven’t exactly become “friends” since you moved into the neighborhood,
but frankly, I think this late-night fiesta would’ve been the perfect
opportunity to do so. Especially because in your intoxication, your inhibitions
would’ve been significantly lowered, and I would’ve seemed to be the perfect
companion. One of you may have even tried to kiss me. Or challenge me to a
dance-off. We can never know for sure.
So congrats
on the party. Glad you had a good time. But just so you know, next time I throw
a big drunken fireworks-watching-on-my-house gala, you are not on the guest
list. And for the record, all the old people in the neighborhood think you guys
are idiots.
-
Britney
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