My neighbour, or more accurately, neighbours, are fast becoming the bane of my existence. Here's the skinny - I live in a four unit home, and I work nights at a Walmart, which should be explanation enough for those who have shopped/worked/been around a Walmart ever, but I digress. I arrive home in the wee hours of the morn quite tired and looking to get maybe an inkling of sleep before I need to go and do it all over again. But it seems as though my bedclothes hardly have a chance to flutter down over me before my neighbours start tuning up their bullshit.

Neighbour numero uno, is an older gentlemen with not much left to do in life who is awake very early in the morning, and keeps a Pomeranian. Now, I have nothing against older gentlemen, or Pomeranians for that matter, but this particular set together is like whiskey and milk. For whatever reasons, he feels the need to have the dog outdoors for extended periods of time, around the general area of my bedroom window, and this hound will bark INCESSANTLY for hours on end. I am not shitting, hours of the most grating, irritating barks I've heard in all my born fucking days. I don't know if he forgets about the thing, or what, but this guy is certainly well on his way to suffering an unfortunate and unforeseen accident at this rate, if you get me. But it gets better.

Insert neighbour numero dos, an older woman of seemingly frail and lithe build, who didn't seem to be much of a threat when she moved in, but don't let that fool you. Between the hours of 6-9am, she will engage in activities that I can describe in no other way but furniture moving. It sounds as though she's dragging her refrigerator and dining set about the lower floors, with sharp clunks and bangs being the normal board of fare. So. I don't know what the deal is with that either, but since she just moved in recently, I've rather given her the benefit of the doubt, but after a week of this, my patience is wearing thin, and so is my sleep. I mean, how many times a day does one really need to move their fucking kitchen table? Or duvet? Or insert some other ridiculously loud-to-move large piece of home furnishing.

It's now to the point where I'm going to have a bitch of a time not shouting obscenities at elderly people and coming off as a cold, callous twat, but I will if need be. Oh, and I've spoken with both of them about said noises, and the fact that I work nights, and if anything, I think it may have gotten worse. I may as well have just kept my fucking mouth shut.