I never thought I'd experience what Mr. Wilson felt from Hank Ketcham's Dennis the Menace comic.
At random days in the morning, fumes of smoke would seep into the house, choking my sleep-deprived lungs. I didn't know the source until today, when my mom entered the guest room and randomly blurted the fact that the enigmatic source of the smoke were our neighbors (which isn't really a surprise because it's either them or La Salle) who were practicing Buddhists and burned paper at regular intervals.
Unfortunately, as much as I'd like to say my woes ends there, this is also the same neighbor that is known for its maids singing out of tone at midnight with the volume of the karaoke at maximum. Back in the day when Virra Mall was still known as Virra Mall and not V-Mall, there'd be regular song competitions on the weekends, and the reason why the radio of most stores in the vicinity are loud is because it's to drown out all that horrible singing (to be fair, not all the singers are out of tone, but every weekend I drop by, there's always someone singing horribly). The shop I was working for was located in the third floor and we could hear the singing (damn centralized sound system!) even if the contestants were at the ground floor. That's what it feels like on certain days, when you're weary and tired and want to get some rest, and then you hear the awful shrieking of their maid (at least I hope it's a maid singing those Filipino songs, with a shrill voice, and horribly out of tune).