The people upstairs are having a party. They told me about it yesterday and extended a perfunctory invitation to our household–which is smart, because it makes it much less likely that we’ll complain about the noise (I’ve used that tactic on neighbors myself). So we knew it would be louder than usual up there tonight (these are the upstairs neighbors who apparently wear lead boots and run from room to room every night).

So. They’re loud as hell, and it’s 3 am (thanks to DST, which just freaked me out by making me wonder if I’d been abducted for an hour or something), but they’re listening to music we’d be listening to if it was our party, and they’re dancing. And I’m a cold-hearted bastard, but I have a really hard time bitching when they’re gettin’ down to the funky grooves.

But the music is really loud, and it’s 3 am. Though it’s “really” only 2 am.

All right. I’ll give them until 4, but if they’re still going by the time I’m ready for bed, I’m laying the smack down.

ETA: What the hell is wrong with kids these days? They had the music off by 3:30. There’s still a little stomping, but it’s just the normal stomping. It’s shameful, I tells ya. If that was our party, we’d have been going until dawn.
Maybe I just had better drugs when I was their age.

Oh wait–never mind. The music’s back on.

Yes. I’m conflicted. Is this what middle-aged feels like?