I’m Sarah, and for five years, my apartment was my sanctuary—until a young couple moved in next door. Suddenly, my weekends were a haze of vibrating walls and heavy bass. Every Friday and Saturday, they partied until 4:00 AM. I work early shifts, so I was living like a zombie.
I tried to be reasonable. I knocked on their door one Saturday morning and politely asked if they could lower the volume after midnight. The guy just laughed in my face. “Sounds like a you problem,” he told me. “Maybe if you had a life, you wouldn’t care. Get some friends.”
I tried the “right” way too. I filed noise complaints and talked to the landlord. They got a warning, which they celebrated by throwing an even louder party and mocking me through the walls as the “lonely lady with no life.”
That was the breaking point. After they wrapped up a party at 4:00 AM on a Friday, I didn’t try to sleep. I set my alarm for 5:30 AM. I pushed my biggest speaker right against our shared wall and blasted a 10-hour loop of construction noises, car alarms, and screaming babies. While they were trying to sleep off their hangovers, I did my laundry, vacuumed, and let the “music” play for three hours straight.
When they pounded on my door, looking pale and exhausted, the guy started screaming about how I’d ruined their morning. I just looked him in the eye and said, “Sounds like a you problem. Maybe get some friends who don’t mind noise.”
The parties haven’t happened since. Some neighbors think I’m a legend; others think I’m insane. But for the first time in six months, I finally got to sleep in.
