Yes, you. The new neighbor that blares the stereo so loud on weekend days, the whole block gets to enjoy your poor music choices.
You, whose ginormous television fills up the entire view of the picture window facing my house because you never close your curtains.
You, who really should always wear a shirt when your prancing on your deck, which you built high enough that every move you make can be seen above your privacy fence, because between your man boobs and back hair, I need my eyes checked, and possibly a prescription for nausea.
You, who have set off fireworks just about every night for the better part of two weeks. A few here, a few there, lit off your deck. At least one loud BOOM, because clearly your night would not be complete without standing on your deck, your man boobs, thankfully, sometimes covered by the towel you have wrapped around you up to your nipples, lighting off a cherry bomb. Perhaps you are compensating for the lack of other explosions in your life. If so, there are drugs for that, go get some.
Your nightly fireworks display, while loud, is not really an awesome pyrotechnic display. It's just noise. Noise that is scattering the very little sanity my dog has left. At the first sizzle of whatever shit your burning over there, the dog's muscles begin to tremble, her ears pull so far back on her head from the anxiety she feels at this noise, that her eyes pop out of her skull, and her tongue drags the floor from the force of her frantic panting. At the second blast, she's trying to climb into my skin by way of her nails digging through my thigh as she seeks to gain elevation by clawing up my leg. By the time the cherry bomb goes off, the big finale of your pubescent fascination, you prick, she's a drooling puddle of fur, tremors wracking her body, lying in the darkest corner she can find. We try to calm her down by feeding her bendryl. Since you've begun your nightly boom booming, we've given her the whole damn bottle, because one just does not get through this poor dog's complete mental breakdown. She's now a diphenhydramine addict, thanks to you.
Don't be surprised, some dark evening, when you're skulking around in your front yard, hairy back exposed, putting up those tacky yard decorations, to hear an ominous growling and suddenly teeth are chomping on your inconsiderate, clueless ass. If you're lucky, it will be the dog.