18 months ago my neighbors on my floor all gathered together and conspired to make a devious devious plan. Their idea: To all have children such that they could terrorize my life. I guess using the phrase "child terrorism" is a bit of a stretch but at all hours you can hear kids or making general noises. I guess this is unfair, it's really not so bad. The children are actually awesome because they make great targets for my water gun pursuits. Nailing small kids (usually under the age of 12) with a water fun from 5 stories up causes great pleasure....almost as much as hitting dogs and watching them go crazy on their owners.
Furthermore I guess one could construct an argument that perhaps they had children as a fulfillment of their own personal ambitions and not strictly as a means for causing me ill. Go figure.
That being said the real pain isn't the little people, but the fact that twice a week or so my next door neighbor decides to cook trash...and burn it. Well it's not really trash, more like some bizarro concoction of spices and vegetables. As a fellow Indian I guess I'm supposed to be of such artistic culinary expressions. As a fellow human I think at some point the opinion of your 5 senses block out any good will. Oh well.
Meanwhile on the other side of my door is my neighbors (also Indian) who have decided that we will not use any words to communicate. Morning greetings are met with blank stares and quick paces back to their door (which gets quickly locked after they dive in). I do not like them. It also doesn't help that the "woman-type" character of the couple looks like a brown troll. You'd think she'd realize that in her life she's gonna have to rely upon her personality...big time. Sadly no one gave her the memo.
Again I guess they haven't really personally mistreated me or anything, but in retaliation I steal their newspaper in the morning on occasion. The Financial Times is sooo much better when it's free. What's even more enjoyable is the thought that as I'm on my train heading to work, there's a troll person who is opening their front door expecting to see a pink paper, only to see nothing but their doormat at the front of their door exclaiming (in all likelihood) "Arre bakri chod!!!"
I spit on you troll people. I spit on you bad cooks. But I don't spit on you little babies. No no no. I make it rain.