Sorry but you've got the hottest ass in the world. 
When the two moved in, it was about eleven clock at night, they fell on us first through the living way in which their cases - Presumably huge boxes with tons of heavy content - the steps of the staircase up balanced in her apartment. After the first two weeks of sporadic but nevertheless constant noise - which I mistakenly and how I had to admit later carelessly dismissed as a settling-in period - the first time I rang the doorbell. It was only a few days after the Long rang his part with us and share control WLan asked you to, because it was not set up your. When we arranged this, I fancied myself - failed completely assessed - in a sense of neighborhood solidarity. I sent him after the long time the door opened, points to the transfer of the dull bass because of the domestic construction and asked him to turn the music down. Sure, it's no problem. "But," he added when I was already about to thank me, and looking back, he now can hear even like electric bass and it would be very necessary.
When I was awoken one night, my subconscious capitulated long before that, the events as usual to incorporate into my dream. When I was awake so far to understand what happened, this one line had been set somewhere in the back of my head: You have the hottest ass in the world. I could, although I left before the strange had never met, every word and understand the unbearable catchy nonetheless unfortunate statement, finally, everything plays out like it did find place in our room. Wide awake and yet I sullenly descended the stairs, and rang the boy looked at me after opening the door with his ever being a mixture of insecurity, fear and the absence of the compound eye. Before I could say anything he turned back, "Your music". The reason for my nightly visit seemed obvious, for safety's sake I put the tall but the seemingly rhetorical question: "Too loud" As I said, sing the song without any problems in our room to, he dropped it for the first time, this casually hingenäselte "Sorry," which sounded so promising as the scraping of fingernails on a blackboard.
waft When I once in the morning the various features of the ringtone distributors through the floor of our living room listening, I knew that the two looked away that this was the background music in the shower, however, led to me only when I the length in pants and wet hair from the bathroom instead of - as I expected - from the living room where the television - including the Subwooferei - had there, opposed. The "Sorry " slipped from him, but I had to say something.
The promising hope the sprouts with my friend on a sunny spring morning, as we were by the thunderous rumbling awakened among us, was like, first the sweet desire, the two would pull out a surprise - and it really brightened again, as we at the window look actually saw a moving truck, only to soon to see that this belonged to someone else - but not the noise. We could never really to find out what this was unusual, with one or another joyful exultation accompanied rumbling, creaking and rumbling, but I would still bet always a corresponding sum to the fact that the two had on the said morrow bought an electric bull and put into operation.
Marcel Proust once remarked that there was something, " the one hand, so much to despair, as a man could never be: a piano . I am looking for him later that he had only a piano player as neighbors.
Text: Cosmo Kramer
illustration: per Storesund
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