The family of about thousand kids: The 18 000 sticks of incense? Right. It's a little heavy; it's a little completely overwhelming, actually. I may have the odd smell of burning toast expelling itself out my door, but you have 18 000 pieces of shit smelling incense smoking away in the public passageway. Oh and yes, some guys sleep over sometimes, which doesn't mean I'm bonking their brains out. Your hairy eyeball isn't going to change that.
The lady a wall away: Ignore me, bitch who lives like, right next door. I've invited you to our house parties, you've turned them down, is that my problem? Seriously? THEN DON'T TURN YOUR NOSE UP AT MICHAEL BOLTON. I had to experience your James Blunt infatuation over and over again as it is.
Lucas, The Security Guard: Not every guy I bring home is a sexual conquest. Try and think about this. I have guy friends, so don't frigging poke them, give them shit, give ME shit for having guy friends over for a glass of vino or coffee. I don't care if you a little over-protective and supposedly look after my friend's cars parked on the pavement that still get stolen – I HAVE MALE FRIENDS. Deal with this and stop embarrassing me by asking me if I boofed them in front of them. Or how much lobola they plan to pay. I love you and all, but this stops. Today.
The dude who has the weird door: I'm never gonna have sex with you, ok? So stop giving me your shag eyes, you have a hairstyle like Bernie Mac and you're married. I don't care if you're going through mid-life crisis and own a new Porsche, I'd rather shag Riaan Cruywagen. And I'd rather not shag Riaan Cruywagen if I had the choice.
Mrs Goldberg, upstairs: You spy on me, don't think I don't know.
Who comes in, who comes out, who cums at all.
And I sometimes stumble in after a few too many. So sue me.
The Nigerians on the other side of the garden: I heard a shot coming from your apartment last Saturday 8:23 pm. Please don't involve me in your crack syndicate. I'll turn a blind eye.
The horny couple across the garden: Please stop walking around naked with the curtains open. Especially when you folks are dancing. I know I dance like an ostrich on ecstasy, but I'm exempt because I have no rhythm. Admittedly, you're sometimes entertaining.
The family two doors down: Your cochlear-breaking bass is quite something. My music might make you want to hurl the George Forman grill into the bath tub, but I thought we had an unspoken agreement about loud [cheesy]music. Not that you've complained, but in case you were thinking of complaining.
The couple in 205: You're ok, you can stay.
To all my guests that have been to my house: Personal apology. A friend pointed out last night that she was once served tea in my Pussy! A tasty little meal in a box mug.
I don't jest, but I've had the dang thing so long, I forget that any new dude the scene may actually read it when I serve him tea. I mean, I've served my parents tea in this cup. I didn't buy this cup, I'll tell you that much. They probably all think I like a bit of carpet on the side, or I just love third base so much, I had to buy a mug to tell the world. Whatever. The mug is going straight to the pool room.