Lola, cover The Situation's eyes, and everybody try to just decode what I'm saying the best you can. I'm way too prudish to even be telling this story, but I just can't keep it to myself.
Last night I went to hear a band and got home late. It took forever to fall asleep. At about three I heard the all-too-familiar squeak-squeak of the mattress from the skank-ho upstairs. "Strange," I thought, "her boyfriend's orange truck hasn't been outside in days." I tried to go back to sleep. Then I heard the high-pitched yip, yip, yip of the dog. Yes! I think skankalicious was using the old peanut butter trick!
Well, I couldn't sleep after that. I took two Ambien and got the broom. One more noise, and as God is my Witness, I'm hitting the ceiling. If she's going to be a trick, she loses her right to privacy, and I don't care.
I also know that I'm the bitter, dried up old lady downstairs. I don't care about that, either. The dog!
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