An Open Letter to the Meth Salesman Across the Hall

Dear Sir,

I know in this economy it can be hard to find a job that keeps the rent paid, the lights on, and the meth flowing. I know you are trying your hardest to run a business that also allows you to live a life without a time card, free from the nine to five that the rest of us are slaves to. I’m sure it can be difficult maintaining positive relationships with your clients when most of them are paranoid, broke persons who attempt to exchange a small television for another hit. It seems like consistency and stability do not exist in your vocation so I can understand your irrational behavior, moody text messages, and irritated demeanor. I’m sure it is frustrating running a business and having a meth addiction.

I hope you do not find this letter judgmental, as it is merely a plea. A plea to stop involving me in the pursuit of the next high, the next customer, or the next potted plant that you have dug up from the side of the road that now sits in a cracked clay vessel on our shared balcony. You my friend, have an odd life; one that interferes immensely with my ability to get a good night’s sleep.

I know you like to be up at three in the morning making monumental construction decisions and then executing them with the precision of a blind man attempting to nail a strand of hair to a wall. I know you have multiple lovers who did not know about each other but who, upon meeting each other, think it’s proper to douse your front door in gasoline in an attempt to light your apartment on fire. I don’t mind you living a less than moral life; we all do in some way. But when I have to wake up to a parking lot of Fire trucks, seven squad cars, and a screaming, underage, scorned lover with a flair for the dramatics, I tend to get a tiny bit irritated.

I hope this letter can silence some of the noise flowing freely from your apartment as the customers come and go, at all hours of the day and night. Did you know that sometimes they knock on my door asking where you are? I do not know where you are. I never want to know where you are. I have given water, cigarettes, and advice to some of your clients who faithfully await your arrival on the stairs. I do have to admire your loyal customer base. Maybe we should all switch back to the barter system.

In conclusion, dear sir, I appreciate entrepreneurship. I respect the American dream and the pursuit of happiness. However, I prefer to come home knowing that my dog is alive and well, my television is sitting where it is supposed to, and my apartment has not been leveled to a smoldering pile of ash. Please move or I will be forced to uproot all seventeen of your potted plants and change the Wi-Fi password we share. Good luck in all future endeavors.


You can always borrow a cup of sugar, just not money.

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