Writing a note at 12:21 a.m. to someone who will never read it isn’t really my style. (Unless it’s during an impromptu therapy session and the letter is to myself five years from now. But until that time comes . . .)

My irked level is off the charts right now, thanks to the lovely neighbors above me.

So I’ll make an exception.

Dear person who lives in Rm 201,

Merry Christmas, you son of a gun. Oh, is it not Christmas Eve? Then why the hell are you watching Love Actually right now, at 12:23 a.m., on a Thursday night in May? And don’t deny it. I can hear Billy Mack singing about his magical fingers and toes through the thin ceiling. I can also hear the sadness in Sam’s voice, as he contemplates unrequited love for the first time. I have the same amount of saturated sadness housed within myself, since I’m just now realizing that I’ve seen that movie enough times to pinpoint the exact scene you’re watching.

You’re pushing me to reevaluate my life choices. And I haven’t got the energy, time, or patience to dive into deep thought right now.

Although, this is a step up from you blasting “Sweet Child o’ Mine” and Boston at one in the morning. Have you beaten your best score in Guitar Hero yet? You’ll hit Expert in no time, you bloody bastard.

Or maybe I can borrow your lovely clogs. Your moves must be fire, what with you Gregory Haines-ing it up all the time. Yeah, I just verbified Gregory Haines. And yeah, I did just make up the word “verbify.”

Oh sweet, now it’s the lake scene with Colin Firth. Did it ever bother you that the chick he was pining over had a super-duper tramp stamp? Or that they used music from The Sims for this moment and called it sound design? Because that has always annoyed me, and I should not be wasting thoughts on this right now. Not ever, really.

I truly hope that one day you’re stuck in an elevator with the person who lives in the apartment to the left of me. And that he or she traps you with bad Linkin Park covers and Simple Plan late-night karaoke.

Only then will you be welcomed to my personal Hell.

With lots of crazy swearing and middle fingers,

Mel from Rm. 101