Dear Ms. Crazyass,
Since you insist on banging on your ceiling when you perceive I'm making too much noise, I wrote you a polite letter and slipped it in your mailbox suggesting that I try to keep things as quiet as humanly possible up here, both for myself and my guests (but never more than 2 at a time, lest your aforementioned crazy ass be offended by all the commotion we cause up here, playing Trivial Pursuit and, y'know, sighing).
And since you answered my letter with one of your own, suggesting that I "stomp" on the floor, "drag" chairs across the floor, "slam" my door when I leave my apartment, make too much noise with the sliding doors in my closet and "bang" my cupboard doors, I feel it necessary for me to clarify a few things.
1. I do not stomp on the floor. Because you're insane, you don't realize that I have to walk on the balls of my feet as to cushion my steps. In my own apartment. I do so very gingerly, as not to unduly vibrate the floor to cause you this apparent distress.
2. The only chair I've moved in the past six months is the one closest to my dinner table, which I lift and re-place on the floor, and gently at that.
3. I hold my apartment door until it's within an inch or two of being closed, then it very softly closes itself. If this is "slamming," then you're even crazier than I thought you were.
4. My closet doors haven't moved since May.
5. Why would I bang my cupboard doors — are my coffee mugs trying to make a break for it? Is the rigatoni staging a poorly-cast revival of My Fair Lady? I push them closed until the latch catches them, then I walk away (probably to go slam my apartment door shut a few hundred times).
In conclusion, you've made my decision to move all that much easier. Lord knows I despise nothing more than having to haul all my shit somewhere else, but the combination of street noise (you gotta love those motorcycles ripping up the street at 3 in the morning during the summer), the lack of a balcony, the stifling summer heat and, of course, neighbours who came in on a slow train from Looneyland have me hitting the classifieds harder than Macauley Culkin looking for his next gig.
Your soon-to-be-ex-upstairs neighbour