There's Weed Smoking, and Then There's Making Snoop Dog Look Like an Amateur

 Dear People Who Just Moved in Downstairs,

Sorry to call you "people." I'm trying to remember your names. Feel free to go on ahead and call me the Crotchety Old Woman With Kids.

Indeed, my sons are busy speculating on your sleeping arrangements since there are four of you jam-packed into a one bedroom. I told them it's none of their business. I'll try to stop them from spying on you.

Oh, and don't worry about all the skin they saw on Halloween. I get that "Sexy Flapper" comes with extra boobage in 2013. I'll just add that to their Things to Talk to a Therapist About When You Grow Up list. 

I want to talk about weed. You know--pot. Marijuana. The stuff you are smoking to get high.

No, I don't have any to sell or share, so don't get too excited. I want to talk about your weed smoking cos there's weed smoking, and then there's smoking so much that the hallway outside your apartment is foggy. There's smoking so much that your neighbors--that would be me, the Crotchety Old Lady--are getting the munchies. There's smoking so much weed that compared to you, Snoop Dogg looks like he films anti-drug PSA's for a living.

Here I am, trying to write because a friend convinced me to do NaNoWriMo with her, and your puff-puff-pass is totally messing up my NaNoFlow.

You've only been here a week and yet the weed thing goes down Every. Single. Night. The smoke is coming up through the ventilation. I am not a fan, and I shouldn't have to put a fan in the window in order for me to breathe.

So, you tell me, should I...

A. Go bang on your door and tell you to cut it out.
B. Call the LAPD and be like, there's WEEEEED. OK, you're right. I might have to lie and tell them you're black and have weapons for them to actually come, but maybe it would be worth it.
C. Take some iburofen. I don't want to go to bed with a weed-induced headache like I did last night.
D. Wait for your suggestions. I am all ears. Enter your ideas right here:________________. 

I'm sure we'll end up getting along. My husband even made you a pumpkin pie to welcome you to the building. (Please don't make us any brownies.)