I HATE PETER IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD

Peter, I hate you around my neighborhood, you lazy, selfish sack of shit.

First of all, what the fuck are you doing with that mattress? Do you think
that if you put it out in the grassy area between the sidewalk and street
that the mattress fairies will whisk it away and leave you a dollar? That's
not gonna happen, you stupid prick. There is no mattress fairy.

Recently, the smell of rotting corpse was eminating from the garbage area.
Oh, how I hoped the stench was your own rotting flesh, Peter, but alas, it
was just some vast amount of shitty meat, probably venison, or elk, or
fucking guinea pig, that no one eats except you, because you're from Belarus
or Azerbaijan or wherever the fuck. Kudos to you for filling your (and
others') bins with decaying, bloody meat. And kudos for putting it out right
at the start of the heatwave. Magnifique! It smells like the fucking
holocaust over here.

And thanks for defacing every surface you can reach, asshole. OK, you have a
Sharpie. We get it. You seem to think you have something to say, but all you
put up is your name, or gang affiliation, or some meditation on the word
fuck. Like this week, when you cleverly changed the window decal at Carl's
Jr. from "Chipotle Chicken Salad" to a "Chipotle Fuck Salad." What a poet
you are, Peter. A true fucking wordsmith. I don't mean that. You're a piece
of shit.

-Not a Fan in North Hollywood