Illustration by Bob AulYou don't know me, but I live in the apartment building next door to yours. We all like to think that what goes on in the privacy of our own homes is our own business, but that isn't always the case. When noises coming from your apartment wake me in the middle of the night, it becomes my business. When I hear a woman shouting, "Don't you hit me, you fucker!" at the top of her lungs, it becomes my business. When I need to call the police to come out and restore the peace and quiet of our neighborhood, it becomes my business. When I smoke half a pack of cigarettes worrying about what's going to happen to a girl I don't even know, it becomes my business. When I can't get back to sleep until 20 minutes before my alarm goes off, it becomes my business. When I show up to work with bloodshot eyes and an inability to concentrate, it becomes my business. When I break down in tears explaining to my boss why I need to go home and get some rest, it becomes my business. When I forfeit half a day's pay because your inability to manage your anger makes it impossible for me to do my job, it becomes my business. Thank you in advance for never again letting what happens in the privacy of your home become my business.
Send anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/oOC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org.