领居每天晚上打麻将影响休息的英文作文
全文共6篇示例，供读者参考
篇1
    The Clattering Nights
    Every night around 8 o'clock, just as I'm getting ready for bed, the same familiar sounds start up again. The clacking of tiles being shuffled and rearranged, the murmurs of conversation drifting through the thin walls that separate our apartment from the neighbors'. It's the unmistakable noise of a mahjong game in progress, and it's become the bane of my existence.
    At first, I didn't mind it too much. The occasional game night among friends seemed harmless enough, and the cheerful laughter that accompanied the tile-shuffling even had a cozy sort of charm to it. But as the weeks went by, I realized that this wasn't just an occasional indulgence – it was a nightly ritual, one that stretched well into the wee hours of th
e morning.
    I can never pinpoint the exact moment when the mahjong sessions begin, but it's always around the time I'm supposed to be winding down for bed. Just as I'm settling in under the covers, the telltale sounds of tiles clattering against the table start up, like a percussion section warming up for a concert. At first, it's just a gentle pitter-patter, but as the game progresses, the sounds grow louder and more insistent, as if the tiles themselves are demanding to be heard.
    And then there are the voices – the lively chatter and exclamations that punctuate each round. I can never make out the words, but the tones are unmistakable: the triumphant cries of victory, the groans of defeat, the good-natured ribbing that flows back and forth like a tennis match. It's as if they're putting on a one-act play for an audience of one, and I'm the reluctant spectator.
    At first, I tried to ignore it. I'd bury my head under the pillow, or crank up the volume on my bedside radio, attempting to drown out the sounds with music or white noise. But no ma
tter what I did, the mahjong cacophony always found a way to seep through, like an insistent drip that refused to be silenced.
    As the nights wore on, and the lack of sleep started to take its toll, I began to dread the onset of the mahjong sessions. I'd lie awake in bed, counting down the minutes until the first tile was shuffled, knowing that once that happened, my chances of getting a decent night's rest were slim to none.
    I tried talking to my parents about it, but they just shrugged it off as a minor inconvenience. "It's just a game," they'd say. "They're not hurting anyone." But to me, it felt like a form of torture, a nightly assault on my senses that left me exhausted and irritable the next day.
    At school, my concentration started to slip. I'd find myself nodding off in class, unable to focus on the lessons or retain the information being taught. My grades, which had always been a source of pride, began to suffer, and my teachers started to take notice.
    "Is everything okay at home?" they'd ask, their brows furrowed with concern. And I'd just nod and mumble something about staying up too late, not wanting to admit the real reason behind my fatigue.
    Because how could I explain to them the nightly ordeal I was enduring? How could I make them understand the sheer frustration of being kept awake night after night by the incessant clacking of tiles and the raucous laughter of people who were supposed to be my neighbors, not my tormentors?
    As the weeks turned into months, the situation only grew worse. The mahjong sessions seemed to stretch later and later into the night, as if the players were intentionally trying to test the limits of my endurance. I'd lie awake, staring at the ceiling, willing the sounds to stop, but they never did.
    Sometimes, in my more fanciful moments, I'd imagine confronting the neighbors directly. I'd march right up to their door, dressed in my pajamas and slippers, and demand that they cease and desist their nightly antics. But then I'd remember that I was just a kid, and they w
ere adults, and the thought of facing them down would fill me with dread.
sort of英文    So instead, I suffered in silence, counting the days until summer vacation when I could escape the mahjong madness and sleep in peace. But even then, the respite was temporary, and before I knew it, the school year would start again, and the nightly ritual would resume, like a bad dream that I couldn't wake up from.
    As I write this, the familiar sounds of tile-shuffling and laughter are already drifting through the walls, signaling the start of another sleepless night. I've learned to accept it as an unavoidable part of my life, like the changing of the seasons or the rising and setting of the sun.

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