My upstairs neighbors; apparently a pack of teenagers I would avoid at all costs in public, you know the type that looks like they want to be in a gang, have decided it’s perfectly acceptable to blast music at any hour of the day and night. Bold. Loud. Unapologetic.

Which, unfortunately for my moral high ground, is classic karma because yes, once upon a regrettable era, I was that person too. This apartment has endured enough metal screaming because of me. And Balkan pop on especially drunken nights. We don’t talk about that chapter.

Back then, I blasted whatever made me feel alive just to cope with my own internal chaos. Now? I respect decibels and suburban civility… mostly. Spending time in Switzerland reminded me that I was, at some point, a rule-abiding, respectful citizen before my rebel phases kicked in. 

But alas, I still have a deep sense of justice (I should’ve been a Libra). So when the bass upstairs threatened to peel the paint off the walls, I did what any spiritually evolved yet slightly feral woman would do:

I retaliated. Swiss German pop? Tried it. Thought the language I love the most would annoy them. Didn’t register. German metal? Immediate silence.

Instant. Dead. Quiet.

Victory sip: Alpine herbal tea, poured triumphantly in my kitchen like I just won a medieval battle.

Moral of the story: Respect your neighbors. But also: know your soundtrack weapons.