Neighbors

So, I have this pesky neighbor, and he's the worst kind of pesky, too, because he picks the most inconvenient and maddening times to drive me insane. For example, it is now 4:07 in the morning, and he has once again been blasting his music for the last hour. As per usual on weekday mornings, I have to get up at 6:30, so this nocturnal unrest puts a serious cramp in my rigidly followed schedule.
Now, let me clarify what I meant when I said he was "blasting his music." I don't mean that I can hear the occasional strain of a song once in a while; I don't mean this is the first time that this has happened; I don't mean I can wake up for a minute, roll over, and fall back asleep. What I do mean, however, is that I can hear every word of every song he plays (soothing middle-of-the-night picks like Wagon Wheel, Love Lockdown, Paper Planes, Bombs Over Baghdad, and anything by Red Hot Chili Peppers); I do mean that this will inevitably go on for hours; I do mean that I have tried everything from drowning his music out with my own to practically suffocating myself with a pillow over my head, but his tunes still manage to infiltrate my brain; I do mean that I stare up at my ceiling, willing the music to stop, praying I don't tear out my own hair.
If you still don't have a clear visual of what this might be like, picture waking up from a dead sleep in the middle of Club LaVela.
It's pretty similar.
I know what you might be thinking: why don't you say something to him? Well, it's simple, really; I would do just about anything to avoid confrontation. Including, apparently, deprive myself of much-needed sleep just to avoid the inevitable awkward meeting at the mailbox. It may sound silly, but it's true. I have seriously contemplated the Friends method of dealing with loud neighbors (aka hitting the ceiling with a broom handle, courtesy of Mr. Heckles), but I even wimped out on doing that.
So, it looks as though I've inadvertently bought into my mother's advice, which is to "just go ahead and get up and start your day when that happens," for I guess I can only lay there through Dani California so many times. Who cares that I just heard someone drive up outside, undoubtedly just now arriving home from a night of debauchery? Who cares that it's pitch black outside and no one but airport workers and garbage men are being productive at this hour?
It obviously matters not to me, for, at 4:33 in the morning, as I longingly look at my bed and shake my fist at the guy upstairs (not the guy upstairs, mind you), I'm about to start working on my taxes, and I'm hating every minute of it.