The old ladies are gossiping again. Their voices cut loudly through the night air, filtering in through the screen of my balcony, ruining the silence of my apartment. Shut up, will you? And while you're at it take the wailing child with you too. Such are my shameful thoughts as I lie lounging on my sofa, belly full of food, fresh flowers on the table.

Ever since the new people have moved into the building I have heard a great deal of stomping feet and wailing lungs above my head. The little boy persists on running around in the strangest hours for a small child like him. For you see, I'd met the family, when they came around distributing small gifts of bath salts wrapped in black and white musical note paper. The perfect nuclear family, with two small children. How deceptively cute those two boys were.

The wailing. The screaming.

Sometimes I can hear one of the little boys screaming his head off. My mind envisions the worst scenarios: He's being beaten. He's being starved. But then more logical scenarios crop up in front of me as I watch the clock and see that it's getting late at night. 11:00 pm. He must be dodging bedtime.

Whatever the case is, it usually stops at around 1:00 am. And then the next day the cycle begins again.

Poor parents.

But don't get me wrong, I love children. I hope to have four of my own one day. I just haven't the patience for other people's bratty children who won't settle down at night. And I especially don't have patience for having to untangle my bicycle from a mess of toddler bikes parked haphazardly in the already crowded bicycle shelter. Especially when I'm already running late for work.

Am I slightly grumpy today?
Perhaps.

I'm just exhausted.