I thought I had gamed the system this time—after two years of living below Marcus, a photographer with an appetite for swarms of high-heeled women and 4 a.m. weeknight furniture shuffling, my husband and I had secured a top floor prewar Chicago condo. With a brick exterior and solid wood floors, the loudest sound we expected to hear was the soft patter of rain against the bedroom skylight. Au contraire—turns out we’d landed next door to a F5 double-twister; an impassioned, early 20s-something couple with a penchant for drawn out screaming matches four or so nights a week. (To be honest, the content—crystal clear through our shared wall—was sometimes fascinating; they waged war over everything from misplaced kitchen tools to snares in their sex life—and my husband and I had some good debates over who had made a stronger point.) But most of the time it was just supremely aggravating.    Read the article……………..