When Your Dream Home Turns Into a Nightmare Next Door
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Chapter 1: A Sweet Encounter
“Sean, you know I’ve always liked you, right?”
Her dark, curly hair framed her face as she rested her chin on her hand. Her voice was as delightful as caramel, and her eyes sparkled green like a bright summer day.
I remained silent, captivated.
She approached me, her hand lightly grazing my chest before brushing against my cheek. I felt frozen in that moment. As she leaned in, her lips drawing nearer, my heart raced uncontrollably.
Just as she was about to speak, the words faded into the background, drowned out by the pounding of my heart.
Suddenly, I jolted awake in bed, drenched in sweat. The loud thumping I heard was not my heart but music from the party next door.
I had invested in a fresh start, but I was reminded of my previous 13 years of living in this:
Damn Google. How could you do this to me? It’s a grower, not a shower, people.
I shelled out $740,000 for an upgrade. Previously, I lived in a cramped, shabby house, often receiving disdainful looks from neighbors. I was the lone small house in a neighborhood filled with larger ones. After years of saving and planning, I finally took the plunge and purchased a new townhome—my “big boy” house.
Initially, everything was fantastic. My neighbors seemed great.
However, a month after I moved in, I noticed a group of young men lounging on the balcony facing my garage. Alarm bells rang in my head. They looked barely out of high school—three of them, to be exact.
We exchanged pleasantries, but they kept calling me “bro” and shouting during their conversations. Two of them wore white tank tops and gold chains, resembling characters from a reality show. One even had a license plate that read, “My other ride is your mom.” As it turned out, they were juniors at a local college.
“Oh no,” I thought, “This can’t end well. But maybe it’ll be alright?”
Spoiler alert: It wasn’t.
How Things Took a Turn for the Worse
A couple of weeks later, as I was getting into my car one weekday morning, I noticed movement behind me. My garage faced theirs, and the townhomes formed a little alleyway.
Turning around, I saw a young woman, perhaps 19, in a tight red skirt with messy blonde hair—definitely a “walk of shame” vibe. She appeared to be nursing a hangover. Over the next few weeks, I witnessed similar scenes of young women exiting their place, which only reinforced my suspicions about their lifestyle.
My girlfriend quickly grew to despise them.
How on earth could they afford to live there? Their rent was over $4000 a month. Back in my college days, I lived in a rundown dorm. These townhomes were nice, not meant to be party zones, but that’s exactly what they became.
The noise from their parties echoed through my office at all hours. Though only four guys lived there, it felt like a crowd of twenty, with a constant flow of people coming and going. I even found empty beer bottles in my trash can.
On some level, I recognized a bit of myself in them from my freshman days—partying and having fun, though I wasn’t quite as “bro” as they were. Still, it felt like karma was knocking at my door.
Their next-door neighbor mentioned witnessing a couple in the adjacent bedroom on move-in day, thinking it was sweet, only to be greeted by their loud and visible antics shortly after.
What followed was a chaotic series of parties that escalated in volume.
One Wednesday night, while writing around 10:30 PM, I was startled by a ruckus outside my window. Looking down, I saw a stream of about 50 young men and women heading toward the townhouse. I couldn’t fathom how they’d all fit inside.
The next morning, my neighbor was irate, explaining that the party had lasted all night. On another occasion, a security camera caught one of the guys vandalizing a trash can with a baseball bat—presumably after their team lost.
Strangely, I hadn’t heard a thing, but the recording sounded like gunfire. Now, whenever our trash cans are set out on Tuesdays, one is notably dented, as if hit by a car.
As the chaos continued, tensions rose among all the neighbors. The HOA board became increasingly concerned, and after much pressure, the owner asked the rowdy tenants to vacate. Allegedly, one of the guys’ mothers had prepaid their rent for the entire year, leading to extensive discussions and disputes.
Ultimately, they moved out, and there was a palpable sense of relief among the residents.
Writing about this experience has been therapeutic. While you can’t choose your neighbors, you can find ways to cope with their noise—earplugs and a fan can work wonders.
So, the lesson learned? Don’t buy your college kid a house or townhome in a questionable area. And above all, strive to be a good neighbor, or karma may come knocking at your door.
Chapter 2: The Party Continues
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