An Open Letter
And now, an open letter to the girl in Flat #64.
To the female tenant, Flat #64:
I'm not sure whether you'll recognize my flat number; I'm the guy in the adjacent building, downstairs, first flat on the left as you're headed out to the car park. We've crossed paths several times before; you may remember one evening when I was coming out of the laundry room, and you and your boyfriend were walking your little puppy. The puppy took sort of a keen interest in me, so I leaned over and gave it a bit of attention. Yes, that's right, I'm the bloke with the goatee and the rugged (which is to say, non-existent) good looks who drives the Chevy TrailBlazer.
Now, I understand that you probably think that you're gorgeous; and to be fair, you are. I also understand that you probably think that since your and/or your boyfriend are apparently involved with the local fire department, you must be very important. I understand that you're probably the local "it" couple, and I'm fine with that. I don't even have a beef with any of that; if you think you're the best thing since sliced bread, and that you invented that, too, then you're perfectly welcome to keep on believing that as far as I'm concerned.
However, I have one, simple request. Learn how to park your damned Suzuki Forenza. I know that you think that it's so adorable and blue, with that darling glass dolphin hanging from the rear view mirror, and that you should be able to park it in whichever fashion you deem most convenient. However, your pathological inability to correctly fit a compact car into a standard parking spot not only boggles the mind, it continually pisses me and my co-worker/neighbor off, since we're often forced to maneuver our vehicles on either side of your shoddy park job. Your boyfriend isn't much better, but at least he parks on the outer ring of the car park, not the one nearest to the actual flats.
The two of you are renting one flat, and you have two vehicles. That entitles you to two parking spaces, not four. I should not consistently wish that I had a can opener with which to extricate my vehicle from its space, simply because your parents failed to teach you how not to park on a painted white line.
Also, if you're ever bored, feel free to stop in. I'm sure I can find some way for you to compensate me for these several months of inconvenience.
Si vis pacem, para bellum,
The Fly
To the female tenant, Flat #64:
I'm not sure whether you'll recognize my flat number; I'm the guy in the adjacent building, downstairs, first flat on the left as you're headed out to the car park. We've crossed paths several times before; you may remember one evening when I was coming out of the laundry room, and you and your boyfriend were walking your little puppy. The puppy took sort of a keen interest in me, so I leaned over and gave it a bit of attention. Yes, that's right, I'm the bloke with the goatee and the rugged (which is to say, non-existent) good looks who drives the Chevy TrailBlazer.
Now, I understand that you probably think that you're gorgeous; and to be fair, you are. I also understand that you probably think that since your and/or your boyfriend are apparently involved with the local fire department, you must be very important. I understand that you're probably the local "it" couple, and I'm fine with that. I don't even have a beef with any of that; if you think you're the best thing since sliced bread, and that you invented that, too, then you're perfectly welcome to keep on believing that as far as I'm concerned.
However, I have one, simple request. Learn how to park your damned Suzuki Forenza. I know that you think that it's so adorable and blue, with that darling glass dolphin hanging from the rear view mirror, and that you should be able to park it in whichever fashion you deem most convenient. However, your pathological inability to correctly fit a compact car into a standard parking spot not only boggles the mind, it continually pisses me and my co-worker/neighbor off, since we're often forced to maneuver our vehicles on either side of your shoddy park job. Your boyfriend isn't much better, but at least he parks on the outer ring of the car park, not the one nearest to the actual flats.
The two of you are renting one flat, and you have two vehicles. That entitles you to two parking spaces, not four. I should not consistently wish that I had a can opener with which to extricate my vehicle from its space, simply because your parents failed to teach you how not to park on a painted white line.
Also, if you're ever bored, feel free to stop in. I'm sure I can find some way for you to compensate me for these several months of inconvenience.
Si vis pacem, para bellum,
The Fly
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