I'm surprised our downstairs neighbors haven't yet used the handle of their broom on the ceiling.
We're always dropping things on the hardwood floor or dragging the coffee table a few inches this way or that. And if it's not us, it's the cats. I don't know how many times Will has knocked off the remote control.
I still haven't memorized the spots of the floor that squeak when I step on them. And I'm sometimes afraid I turn the TV on too loud.
A couple of nights ago I was even reading in bed and I hiccuped so violently that the book flew out of my hand, knocked into my mug of water on my nightstand and landed with a thump on the hardwood floor. At midnight.
I've never had to worry about this before. I lived in a couple of apartments in college, but c'mon, that was college. If a couch on fire in the middle of the street doesn't bother you, then I'm pretty sure heavy footsteps in the apartment above you won't bother you either.