Goodnight Motherfucking Moon
Life is not so short that there is always time enough for courtesy.
- Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Social Aims"
It was so quiet, you could hear a pun drop.
- Arthur 'Bugs' Baer
The best cure for insomnia is to get a lot of sleep.
- W.C. Fields in "Never Give a Sucker an Even Break"
Okay, a caveat first and foremost: to-day's story is just me blowing off a little bit of steam, spinning a real anecdote which really doesn't amount to much into a hopefully comical tale of woe, and as such is not intended to be a hidden "slam" or "attack" or any such nonsense. I mean this is the Internet for Christ's sake, hiding something here would be the acme of asininity. I'm just trying to write more these days and I need to sharpen my claws and this is what I happen to be thinking about and so here we are. The subjects to which I shall refer in this entry to my knowledge don't read this weblog, or even know about it, although, hey, I could be wrong. But anyway. If you are reading this, don't throw a hissy, is all. Because then I really will get mad.
Anyways. As I began to relate, to-day's tale is less of a strident and condescending quasi-coherent rant about some perceived fault or shortcoming of society, and more of me bitching about something that bothers me. Lots of things bother me, actually. The fact that, if I awoke in the middle of the night to the cool sensation of gunmetal pressed against my temple, and an untied cravat were thrown at me, and a husky, vaguely European-sounding voice in the darkness told me to tie it...[well, not so much Alan Rickman in "Die Hard," that's too arch and smarmy, but not too Billy Drago/Jeroen Krabbe/Bruce Payne either, though these are all serviceable Eurovillains, at least so far as Direct-to-Airline Studios is concerned...ack, another verdammt tangent]...anyway, were my life to depend upon my ability to properly tie a necktie, I would be dead. This bothers me more than you'd think considering for the past six (6!) years I've had a job where wearing a necktie is part of the dress code. And to this day, I remain unable to tie it without it getting all lopsided and sticking out too much on one side of the knot, requiring constant repositioning. This, coupled with the nascent desire of all my dress shirts to experience the joy of flight, as expressed by flapping their collars heavenward about four times during the course of the average workday, tends to make me look like a buffoon. Alright. Correction. More like a buffoon.
Dimes bother me. That's right. Dimes. Twice the value of a nickel, but so fucking slender and tiny...this has been bothering me for over twenty years. No, this is not something I just made up to try and be funny, because this isn't particularly funny, this is sad and bizarre, but it bugs the living shit out of me. And don't even get me started on the logic of who goes on what denomination of coin and bill. Thomas Jefferson was NOT the second fucking President of the United Fucking States of Motherfucking America, so why in the name of baby Jesus is he on the two-dollar bill? Hmm? Care to proffer an explanation for THAT one, you fuck? No? I thought not. By all rights, we should have a two dollar bill bearing the portrait of JOHN MOTHERFUCKING ADAMS, who was after all OUR SECOND FUCKING PRESIDENT, and perhaps, should it prove necessary and if the rampant homophobia should ever abate in this great land, a three-dollar bill with Tommy J and Monticello and all that jazz. Look, I told you it wasn't particularly funny, don't look at me like I'm some kind of freak. I just want some goddamn equitable and historically accurate currency, is that too much for which to ask, at long last?
Riffing right along, I hate when people tell me that history is their least favorite subject. To wit: the venom and fervor spat upon your monitor screens in the preceding paragraph was basically dredged up when an employee of mine recently identified the president on the two-dollar bill, after much hemming and hawing and knitting of brows and apparent soul-searching, as "Donald Jackson." Yes. That's correct. DONALD Jackson, who by the way wasn't even a fucking president at all, thank you very much. I, perhaps predictably, went a little hard on the kid. I said you get half-credit, because there was a President ANDREW Jackson ("oh yeah! Andrew, is what I meant"), but then that half-credit got totally shot down because this isn't him. He's on the twenty. Oh, right, you knew that. Oh I'm so sure. Just add a zero after the two, Nimrod. Alright, so maybe making him run twenty-two laps around the concession stand ("two for Jefferson, and twenty for Jackson, you fucking Mongoloid") was a tad too disciplinarian, but you know what, ignorance is no defense so far as I'm concerned. People who are old enough to vote, drive, and marry, who can tell you the batting averages of every Yankee without blinking an eye but who stammer and blush like virgins if you ask them who their congressman is, well, these people need to get smacked around every so often, so far as I'm concerned. No sympathy. These people aren't like you and me, they're stupider, but they feel pain less. They're bred that way. I will say this, though: that stupid shit is never going to confuse his fucking presidents, ever again. He's going to be seventy-five and shining shoes in some bus terminal somewhere and you ask him who's on the two-dollar bill, he's going to cry out, clear as day, "Thomas Jefferson!" Right before he starts running.
Okay. All this talk of general annoyances was more or less prefatory to the actual story I set out to tell, but then I got so caught up in the other ones that now I'm not as annoyed as I was. Give me a moment.
...right. Annoyance levels restored. So Saturday night, intel reported heavy chatter with regards to several key words, such as "gaming," "Saturday," and "yes." Using a highly-classified threat matrix as well as some obvious context clues, I pieced together that my roommate was hosting his gaming group that night. I was working anyway and they usually keep to his room so what do I care. Game your asses off. Now, here's the tricky part: wait. I should back up a bit.
Long-time readers of this column remember that for the past few months, I have been without an actual room of my own, owing to the diligence and steadfastness of the Brick Township Fire Marshal. I guess in their defense, if I was actually trapped downstairs when a fire broke out and suffered lethal asphyxiation from smoke inhalation, or worse, burned to death in a fiery conflagration, I'd probably be a little pissed. However, this has yet to happen, so I remain sulky and petulant as I go to sleep each and every night in my makeshift bedroom which actually used to be our dining room. It's empty anyway since our Chris-ectomy this past May, so there's just enough room for my bed, a rickety little folding table, and a bucket in which to catch my tears. "Why do you continue to stay in such a shitty place?" you might rhetorically ask. I'm actually considering moving home for a while but have been loathe to actually take steps to implement this plan, which I've designated Operation Big Fucking Failure At Life. Who knows. Anyway. Tangents. Okay. So I'm sleeping in the open, save for a pair of black bedsheets thumbtacked up like some low-rent semi-private hospital room for Goths, and I get home Saturday night around 2am-ish and hey, there's a nurse sleeping on my couch.
In my living room.
Which is adjacent to the dining room.
Which is now, you know.
My bedroom.
Which of course has no wall separating it from the living room.
Which is fucking moot, anyway, because he's snoring so goddamn motherfucking loudly it would probably pulverize right through that wall like a shaped fucking charge. This is no mere hyperbole, boys and girls. And it only fucking escalated as the night wound into day. At first, it sounded something like a man trying to inhale a bullfrog through a funnel. And I don't mean any run-of-the-mill amphibian off the street here; I'm talking Calaveras County, genetically engineered, no fucking around, mutant size-of-a-fucking-football frog here. I'm talking about a frog that could hoist the hammer of Thor. Firmly wedged into that funnel, being slowly mulched as the inexorable air pressure sucks it in millimeter by bloody millimeter, its death-ribbit a wet, hacking, wheezing crunch echoing through the hushed stillness of the apartment. The kind of wet crunching sound you get when you smack a bag full of hamsters against a concrete wall. If. um. If you're wont to do that kind of thing. Anyway. That's how it started.
Friends, that's how it started.
After an hour spent downstairs on the computer, trying to think of something that might hold my interest for a bit longer that I might look up on the web...let's be honest, basically hiding in my own apartment...I decided enough was enough, I was going to go upstairs, how loud could it be, I'd fall asleep eventually. Well, that plan didn't come off so well, actually. I'm not sure what happened, but the wetness of my houseguest's snoring diminished slightly (my initial theory, that he'd sucked in a couch cushion, the sponginess of which served to absorb some of whatever unholy ichor was gurgling inside his windpipe and esophagus, was disproved this morning when a quick visual inventory showed all cushions present and accounted for), along with a proportional amplification of volume. Maybe the fluid had been dampening the sound, and now that that was gone he could really get this party started. Who knows. So I in my cap crawled into bed and tried to settle my brains for a long summer...uh...reading. I was breezing through Al Franken's Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them (which was quite good, and I recommend it) and so I figured I could wait him out. Sooner or later he'd wake up, or quiet down, or. I dunno. Die.
I clicked the light on, which shone a bit over my hospital sheet wall, and tried to lose myself in my book. A few times, he seemed to stir as if on the verge of fully shrugging off his sleepiness and waking up, and I thought perhaps the light from my "room" had woken him up. I wondered if he'd stumble over and ask me to turn the light out because he was trying to sleep. I found myself hoping that this would happen. I sat there, less and less reading my book and more and more choreographing this imaginary and highly theatrical confrontation. [I was hoping it might get to the point where I could throw my drink in his face.] Now, a saner person would imagine a quieter world, where they could sleep, rather than hoping to make someone else feel bad because they themselves have been aggrieved. I tend to do this sort of thing a lot, actually, and I'm sure that it doesn't speak highly of my character. Would I rather be able to justify feeling sorry for myself, and getting others to feel sorry for me, than have a problem go away? Wouldn't it be better to try and solve the problem itself, and not adapt to it and take what cold consolation you could from people's sympathies? I felt on the verge of a minor mental breakthough, and then, of course, the wheezing began again. Really began. I mean the stuff before, that was just the preliminaries. The overture, if you will. Now commenced the main symphony, his Ode to Insomnia. You laugh, perhaps. It couldn't possibly be as bad as you're describing, come now. No. If anything, I'm going easy on the poor guy here. The snoring reached such a passionate crescendo that I became convinced that his subconscious had hijacked the autonomous functions of his body and was desperately crying out some long-buried secret torment using the only means it had to communicate, playing him like some snotty, wheezing bagpipes. ugh. Sorry, that image even bothers me, and I'm pretty sick when it comes to this sort of thing.
Finally, some time just after five in the morning, I fell asleep. Or lost time, or got hiccupped through the space-time continuum or something. Next thing I knew, it was 6:10 am. Subjectively, I had just jumped ahead an hour in time, I had no explanation for it because I certainly hadn't gotten any sleep or rest. And why had I come back to consciousness? Yes, that's right, the snoring. The snoring. Christ on his throne, that word is just too fucking feeble to describe what he was doing. At this point, it was wheezing, phlegmatic, blaring....he was pulling out all the stops with this one, this was his masterpiece, his fucking Ring des Nibelungen...he was winding up his epic, and now, his lungs began to blast out his Gotterdammerung. The sounds...you almost have to reach back to the feverish, frantic prose of a Poe or a Lovecraft in attempting to delineate such an otherworldly, inhuman, starkly alien and profoundly hideous cacophony.
Imagine, if you will, a herd of placid, gentle, timid manatees, languorously frolicking in the warm, salty waters of the Caribbean...playfully chasing one another, quite slowly of course, owing to their greasy, blubbery, uneasily maneuvered masses...perhaps sidling up and nudging one another for sport, or maybe splashing together to start another round of Marco Polo, or the primitive manatee equivalent thereof...snuffling happy little manatee laughs...blissfully unaware, as indeed we the omniscient spectators wished we could be, that the herd has unwittingly floated directly onto the final stretch of the American Powerboat Association-sanctioned 15th Annual Miami Super Boat Grand Prix...dull, stupid sea-cow eyes blinking innocently at the approaching flotilla of shiny mid-life crises gleaming in the hot July sun, a surging, churning, irrevocable, gleaming chrome tide of whirring steel death...they might flop about in panic, or just bob there, unable to comprehend the imminence of their demise, as the armada plows straight over them, 1200hp propellers chopping through and getting clogged by fifteen tons of bloated sea-cow blubber...the whine of straining engines, the low rumbling screams of the manatee, side by side, an awful chorus of mechanized slaughter...the placid, crystal-clear waters of the Caribbean frothing blood-red with the carnage...horrible...just horrible...oh, the humanity...
So anyway. It sounded a little bit like that.
[Was that over the top? I suspect it was. Sorry.]
Whew. Really lost myself in that analogy, didn't I...where was I...oh, right. I eventually fell asleep again, and got some rest, but, I dunno, I think some common courtesy would have been nice. Am I way off base here? It's one thing to say, "Hey, sleep here tonight, not a problem," and quite another to say, "Hey, sleep here tonight, in my roommate's room," [which is what it amounts to, really, never mind whether or not I wanted to watch TV or something in the living room which is where I've been banished by circumstance], "oh, and by the way, why don't you rev this belt sander constantly for the next seven hours too so he can't get any fucking sleep even if he wants to." Although the soothing sound of a belt sander would have been an improvement, honestly. But seriously. Next time, snoring houseguests can sleep in his room.
Alright. I feel a little better now. Thanks for listening, blog. Next time you do the bitching, deal?
- Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Social Aims"
It was so quiet, you could hear a pun drop.
- Arthur 'Bugs' Baer
The best cure for insomnia is to get a lot of sleep.
- W.C. Fields in "Never Give a Sucker an Even Break"
Okay, a caveat first and foremost: to-day's story is just me blowing off a little bit of steam, spinning a real anecdote which really doesn't amount to much into a hopefully comical tale of woe, and as such is not intended to be a hidden "slam" or "attack" or any such nonsense. I mean this is the Internet for Christ's sake, hiding something here would be the acme of asininity. I'm just trying to write more these days and I need to sharpen my claws and this is what I happen to be thinking about and so here we are. The subjects to which I shall refer in this entry to my knowledge don't read this weblog, or even know about it, although, hey, I could be wrong. But anyway. If you are reading this, don't throw a hissy, is all. Because then I really will get mad.
Anyways. As I began to relate, to-day's tale is less of a strident and condescending quasi-coherent rant about some perceived fault or shortcoming of society, and more of me bitching about something that bothers me. Lots of things bother me, actually. The fact that, if I awoke in the middle of the night to the cool sensation of gunmetal pressed against my temple, and an untied cravat were thrown at me, and a husky, vaguely European-sounding voice in the darkness told me to tie it...[well, not so much Alan Rickman in "Die Hard," that's too arch and smarmy, but not too Billy Drago/Jeroen Krabbe/Bruce Payne either, though these are all serviceable Eurovillains, at least so far as Direct-to-Airline Studios is concerned...ack, another verdammt tangent]...anyway, were my life to depend upon my ability to properly tie a necktie, I would be dead. This bothers me more than you'd think considering for the past six (6!) years I've had a job where wearing a necktie is part of the dress code. And to this day, I remain unable to tie it without it getting all lopsided and sticking out too much on one side of the knot, requiring constant repositioning. This, coupled with the nascent desire of all my dress shirts to experience the joy of flight, as expressed by flapping their collars heavenward about four times during the course of the average workday, tends to make me look like a buffoon. Alright. Correction. More like a buffoon.
Dimes bother me. That's right. Dimes. Twice the value of a nickel, but so fucking slender and tiny...this has been bothering me for over twenty years. No, this is not something I just made up to try and be funny, because this isn't particularly funny, this is sad and bizarre, but it bugs the living shit out of me. And don't even get me started on the logic of who goes on what denomination of coin and bill. Thomas Jefferson was NOT the second fucking President of the United Fucking States of Motherfucking America, so why in the name of baby Jesus is he on the two-dollar bill? Hmm? Care to proffer an explanation for THAT one, you fuck? No? I thought not. By all rights, we should have a two dollar bill bearing the portrait of JOHN MOTHERFUCKING ADAMS, who was after all OUR SECOND FUCKING PRESIDENT, and perhaps, should it prove necessary and if the rampant homophobia should ever abate in this great land, a three-dollar bill with Tommy J and Monticello and all that jazz. Look, I told you it wasn't particularly funny, don't look at me like I'm some kind of freak. I just want some goddamn equitable and historically accurate currency, is that too much for which to ask, at long last?
Riffing right along, I hate when people tell me that history is their least favorite subject. To wit: the venom and fervor spat upon your monitor screens in the preceding paragraph was basically dredged up when an employee of mine recently identified the president on the two-dollar bill, after much hemming and hawing and knitting of brows and apparent soul-searching, as "Donald Jackson." Yes. That's correct. DONALD Jackson, who by the way wasn't even a fucking president at all, thank you very much. I, perhaps predictably, went a little hard on the kid. I said you get half-credit, because there was a President ANDREW Jackson ("oh yeah! Andrew, is what I meant"), but then that half-credit got totally shot down because this isn't him. He's on the twenty. Oh, right, you knew that. Oh I'm so sure. Just add a zero after the two, Nimrod. Alright, so maybe making him run twenty-two laps around the concession stand ("two for Jefferson, and twenty for Jackson, you fucking Mongoloid") was a tad too disciplinarian, but you know what, ignorance is no defense so far as I'm concerned. People who are old enough to vote, drive, and marry, who can tell you the batting averages of every Yankee without blinking an eye but who stammer and blush like virgins if you ask them who their congressman is, well, these people need to get smacked around every so often, so far as I'm concerned. No sympathy. These people aren't like you and me, they're stupider, but they feel pain less. They're bred that way. I will say this, though: that stupid shit is never going to confuse his fucking presidents, ever again. He's going to be seventy-five and shining shoes in some bus terminal somewhere and you ask him who's on the two-dollar bill, he's going to cry out, clear as day, "Thomas Jefferson!" Right before he starts running.
Okay. All this talk of general annoyances was more or less prefatory to the actual story I set out to tell, but then I got so caught up in the other ones that now I'm not as annoyed as I was. Give me a moment.
...right. Annoyance levels restored. So Saturday night, intel reported heavy chatter with regards to several key words, such as "gaming," "Saturday," and "yes." Using a highly-classified threat matrix as well as some obvious context clues, I pieced together that my roommate was hosting his gaming group that night. I was working anyway and they usually keep to his room so what do I care. Game your asses off. Now, here's the tricky part: wait. I should back up a bit.
Long-time readers of this column remember that for the past few months, I have been without an actual room of my own, owing to the diligence and steadfastness of the Brick Township Fire Marshal. I guess in their defense, if I was actually trapped downstairs when a fire broke out and suffered lethal asphyxiation from smoke inhalation, or worse, burned to death in a fiery conflagration, I'd probably be a little pissed. However, this has yet to happen, so I remain sulky and petulant as I go to sleep each and every night in my makeshift bedroom which actually used to be our dining room. It's empty anyway since our Chris-ectomy this past May, so there's just enough room for my bed, a rickety little folding table, and a bucket in which to catch my tears. "Why do you continue to stay in such a shitty place?" you might rhetorically ask. I'm actually considering moving home for a while but have been loathe to actually take steps to implement this plan, which I've designated Operation Big Fucking Failure At Life. Who knows. Anyway. Tangents. Okay. So I'm sleeping in the open, save for a pair of black bedsheets thumbtacked up like some low-rent semi-private hospital room for Goths, and I get home Saturday night around 2am-ish and hey, there's a nurse sleeping on my couch.
In my living room.
Which is adjacent to the dining room.
Which is now, you know.
My bedroom.
Which of course has no wall separating it from the living room.
Which is fucking moot, anyway, because he's snoring so goddamn motherfucking loudly it would probably pulverize right through that wall like a shaped fucking charge. This is no mere hyperbole, boys and girls. And it only fucking escalated as the night wound into day. At first, it sounded something like a man trying to inhale a bullfrog through a funnel. And I don't mean any run-of-the-mill amphibian off the street here; I'm talking Calaveras County, genetically engineered, no fucking around, mutant size-of-a-fucking-football frog here. I'm talking about a frog that could hoist the hammer of Thor. Firmly wedged into that funnel, being slowly mulched as the inexorable air pressure sucks it in millimeter by bloody millimeter, its death-ribbit a wet, hacking, wheezing crunch echoing through the hushed stillness of the apartment. The kind of wet crunching sound you get when you smack a bag full of hamsters against a concrete wall. If. um. If you're wont to do that kind of thing. Anyway. That's how it started.
Friends, that's how it started.
After an hour spent downstairs on the computer, trying to think of something that might hold my interest for a bit longer that I might look up on the web...let's be honest, basically hiding in my own apartment...I decided enough was enough, I was going to go upstairs, how loud could it be, I'd fall asleep eventually. Well, that plan didn't come off so well, actually. I'm not sure what happened, but the wetness of my houseguest's snoring diminished slightly (my initial theory, that he'd sucked in a couch cushion, the sponginess of which served to absorb some of whatever unholy ichor was gurgling inside his windpipe and esophagus, was disproved this morning when a quick visual inventory showed all cushions present and accounted for), along with a proportional amplification of volume. Maybe the fluid had been dampening the sound, and now that that was gone he could really get this party started. Who knows. So I in my cap crawled into bed and tried to settle my brains for a long summer...uh...reading. I was breezing through Al Franken's Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them (which was quite good, and I recommend it) and so I figured I could wait him out. Sooner or later he'd wake up, or quiet down, or. I dunno. Die.
I clicked the light on, which shone a bit over my hospital sheet wall, and tried to lose myself in my book. A few times, he seemed to stir as if on the verge of fully shrugging off his sleepiness and waking up, and I thought perhaps the light from my "room" had woken him up. I wondered if he'd stumble over and ask me to turn the light out because he was trying to sleep. I found myself hoping that this would happen. I sat there, less and less reading my book and more and more choreographing this imaginary and highly theatrical confrontation. [I was hoping it might get to the point where I could throw my drink in his face.] Now, a saner person would imagine a quieter world, where they could sleep, rather than hoping to make someone else feel bad because they themselves have been aggrieved. I tend to do this sort of thing a lot, actually, and I'm sure that it doesn't speak highly of my character. Would I rather be able to justify feeling sorry for myself, and getting others to feel sorry for me, than have a problem go away? Wouldn't it be better to try and solve the problem itself, and not adapt to it and take what cold consolation you could from people's sympathies? I felt on the verge of a minor mental breakthough, and then, of course, the wheezing began again. Really began. I mean the stuff before, that was just the preliminaries. The overture, if you will. Now commenced the main symphony, his Ode to Insomnia. You laugh, perhaps. It couldn't possibly be as bad as you're describing, come now. No. If anything, I'm going easy on the poor guy here. The snoring reached such a passionate crescendo that I became convinced that his subconscious had hijacked the autonomous functions of his body and was desperately crying out some long-buried secret torment using the only means it had to communicate, playing him like some snotty, wheezing bagpipes. ugh. Sorry, that image even bothers me, and I'm pretty sick when it comes to this sort of thing.
Finally, some time just after five in the morning, I fell asleep. Or lost time, or got hiccupped through the space-time continuum or something. Next thing I knew, it was 6:10 am. Subjectively, I had just jumped ahead an hour in time, I had no explanation for it because I certainly hadn't gotten any sleep or rest. And why had I come back to consciousness? Yes, that's right, the snoring. The snoring. Christ on his throne, that word is just too fucking feeble to describe what he was doing. At this point, it was wheezing, phlegmatic, blaring....he was pulling out all the stops with this one, this was his masterpiece, his fucking Ring des Nibelungen...he was winding up his epic, and now, his lungs began to blast out his Gotterdammerung. The sounds...you almost have to reach back to the feverish, frantic prose of a Poe or a Lovecraft in attempting to delineate such an otherworldly, inhuman, starkly alien and profoundly hideous cacophony.
Imagine, if you will, a herd of placid, gentle, timid manatees, languorously frolicking in the warm, salty waters of the Caribbean...playfully chasing one another, quite slowly of course, owing to their greasy, blubbery, uneasily maneuvered masses...perhaps sidling up and nudging one another for sport, or maybe splashing together to start another round of Marco Polo, or the primitive manatee equivalent thereof...snuffling happy little manatee laughs...blissfully unaware, as indeed we the omniscient spectators wished we could be, that the herd has unwittingly floated directly onto the final stretch of the American Powerboat Association-sanctioned 15th Annual Miami Super Boat Grand Prix...dull, stupid sea-cow eyes blinking innocently at the approaching flotilla of shiny mid-life crises gleaming in the hot July sun, a surging, churning, irrevocable, gleaming chrome tide of whirring steel death...they might flop about in panic, or just bob there, unable to comprehend the imminence of their demise, as the armada plows straight over them, 1200hp propellers chopping through and getting clogged by fifteen tons of bloated sea-cow blubber...the whine of straining engines, the low rumbling screams of the manatee, side by side, an awful chorus of mechanized slaughter...the placid, crystal-clear waters of the Caribbean frothing blood-red with the carnage...horrible...just horrible...oh, the humanity...
So anyway. It sounded a little bit like that.
[Was that over the top? I suspect it was. Sorry.]
Whew. Really lost myself in that analogy, didn't I...where was I...oh, right. I eventually fell asleep again, and got some rest, but, I dunno, I think some common courtesy would have been nice. Am I way off base here? It's one thing to say, "Hey, sleep here tonight, not a problem," and quite another to say, "Hey, sleep here tonight, in my roommate's room," [which is what it amounts to, really, never mind whether or not I wanted to watch TV or something in the living room which is where I've been banished by circumstance], "oh, and by the way, why don't you rev this belt sander constantly for the next seven hours too so he can't get any fucking sleep even if he wants to." Although the soothing sound of a belt sander would have been an improvement, honestly. But seriously. Next time, snoring houseguests can sleep in his room.
Alright. I feel a little better now. Thanks for listening, blog. Next time you do the bitching, deal?
posted by Patrick at 9:24 AM
2 Comments:
What about the fairly silent tricks of falling asleep? The dining room must be putting a huge cramp in your style.
The snoring might have been slightly off putting though.
It's been ages, and I feel like I might be intruding on your privacy, but it's the internet... and it would be ridiculous to assume privacy. As you said. Or something close to.
I feel your pain having spent many long nights listening to that person snoring.
The Horror! The Horror!
Really folks its worse than you can possibly imagine!
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