Taryn O’Connor: An open-ended letter to the people who keep hooking up in front of my house

Please Stop.

Dear Amorous Drunks,

Why are you making out in front of my house?

I don’t know which of you led the other person here, but as a concerned bystander, I don’t recommend following strangers down dark cobblestone driveways where the only two visible establishments are an abandoned shed and my front door. Do either of those strike you as particularly romantic, safe, or hygienic areas? ME EITHER.

Did you learn nothing from Mean Girls? You will get pregnant, and die.

When did I first notice this, I hear you ask? Do we want to discuss the time that I came home from rehearsal at midnight and then had to actually engage in a conversation with you so that you would stop touching each other, and move away from the door to my flat so I could get in. I continue to be plagued with what’s more upsetting, the fact that I didn’t make you leave, or the fact that you, of your own accord, chose to stay. Literally, all I wanted was to watch an acclaimed cancelled television show on Netflix and then go to bed, WHY ARE YOU MAKING THIS HARD?

Right now, streaming live from my sitting room, I see TWO MORE OF YOU wandering down the driveway that leads to my house- I can’t actually bring myself to go down and yell at you, but if you get a bucket of water poured on you in the next five minutes, know that it is not an accident. Also, please muse with me about how funny it could be if I did go down there now.

Imagine if you went to “your spot”, which is actually just my door, to make out with your significant other (or the more likely option, someone you just picked up at the Ma Bells)  and you found me there waiting in my doorway with either: condoms, an air-horn, your parents (improbable, but I imagine effective), or no props, but an extremely aggressive attitude so that when you try to kiss, you are interrupted by my shoving one of you out of the way yelling, “NOT IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE.”

How do I make this end? Do I need to drunkenly make out with someone in front of your house for you to see the error of your ways? The answer is no. When my flatmate comes home from her 11:56pm Tesco dash (nothing like that Tuesday night last minute sprint for Diet Coke), she WILL make you leave, and you will not feel good about it. Not everyone has the soft heart for drunk love that I do (nor the massive fear of confrontation).

Seriously though, there is nothing romantic or alluring about the front of my house or the space separating it from the shed – whose owner and purpose both remain unclear, just for the record. This isn’t the paleontology section of the library. This is the space where we keep our bins; why do you want to kiss people there? I can think of at least five better places to drunkenly make out- THE FIRST IS YOUR BED. The next four are their bed, your couch, their couch, and in front of your kitchen window (this is for the people who live across from me- today no one is safe #callingyouout). Now that I have provided you with many alternate locations that I hope you find suitable, please leave my house alone.

Okay? Okay.