I live on the first. Neighbors from the 4th floor are big lovers of bustling. And about the existence of the urn under the dishwasher in the kitchen, they don’t seem to know. All the devastated tar is sent straight into the fortress.

As a result, after yesterday’s evening, under my window was a whole storehouse of joy for a business lady on plastic. Six empty half-toll breasts of strong beer and two bottles of vodka.

honestly? Tired of this landscape. I picked up my garbage bag, went out to the yard and gathered. and. and. And I hear a contempt from the second floor: “What, pig, is it ashamed? Clean it up!”

Should I have to raise my image in the eyes of my neighbors?