Okay, I really need to get this off my chest because I’m hovering somewhere between exhaustion and full-on rage, and neither is a great look on a weeknight.
I moved into this neighborhood because it was quiet. Lawns trimmed. Porch lights on by sunset. The kind of place where you assume people understand the unspoken rules: don’t blast music past midnight, don’t trespass, and definitely don’t let your dog treat someone else’s yard like a public restroom.
Enter my neighbors.
At first, I tried to be patient. I told myself they were just young, maybe new to living on their own. The first late-night party? Annoying, but fine. The second one that went until 2 a.m. with bass so loud my walls vibrated? Less fine. By the fourth time, when I had to drag myself to work on three hours of sleep, my goodwill was officially on life support.
Then there was the dog.
They have this medium-sized dog that they let roam like it pays rent. One morning I walked outside, coffee in hand, already half-dead, and there it was: poop. Right in the middle of my yard. Not even near the edge—boldly centered, like a statement.
I went over and talked to them. Calmly. Politely. I said, “Hey, could you please keep your dog out of my yard?” They nodded, apologized, promised it wouldn’t happen again.
So I locked my gates.
Problem solved, right?
Wrong.
I came home a few days later and immediately knew something was off. Muddy paw prints all over my patio. Fresh poop by the flowerbed I’d just planted last month. I stood there staring at the mess, feeling something hot and sharp crawl up my spine.
I cleaned it up—because what choice did I have?—and carried the bag over to their place. I wasn’t planning to throw it or scream… okay, maybe I was planning to scream a little. I was ready to finally lose it.
But when they opened the door, I stopped cold.
Their place looked like a disaster zone. Clothes everywhere. Empty takeout containers stacked like a leaning tower of grease. Dishes overflowing the sink, crusted with food that looked old enough to vote. The smell hit me a second later—stale beer, trash, something sour underneath it all.
I just stood there, holding a bag of dog poop, completely stunned.
These weren’t just inconsiderate neighbors. They were living in absolute chaos. In a normal residential neighborhood. Like a frat house had been dropped from the sky and forgotten.
Suddenly, my anger shifted. Not disappeared—just… changed. I wasn’t yelling anymore. I was tired. Bone-deep tired. I dropped the bag in their trash, said something clipped and forgettable, and walked home feeling weirdly hollow.
That night, the music started again. Midnight. One a.m. Laughter, shouting, doors slamming. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, calculating how many hours of sleep I might salvage if they quieted down soon.
They didn’t.
The next day, I reported them to the neighborhood association. I hated myself a little while doing it. I could practically hear the word Karen echoing in my head. The woman who complains. The one who ruins everyone’s fun.
The association told me they’d “look into it.” Maybe talk to the owner. Maybe issue a warning. Maybe terminate the lease. Lots of maybes.
Now I’m stuck in this mental tug-of-war. Part of me thinks I should just suck it up. I work all day, come home exhausted, and all I want is peace—not to play hall monitor to someone else’s mess of a life.
But the other part of me—the part scraping dog poop off my lawn at dusk, the part showing up to work exhausted, the part paying a mortgage for a home that no longer feels like one—knows this isn’t okay.
I don’t think wanting sleep, basic respect, and a poop-free yard makes me unreasonable. I think it makes me human.
So no, I don’t want to live next to a frat house. I just want my home to feel like my home again. And honestly? I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
