Actually, it IS Rocket Science



Under my skin

So what do you do when you think to yourself before going to bed, “You know, it’s perfect weather outside tonight, and there’s a nice light rain, so I think I’ll leave my window open,” and you drift softly off to sleep nestled in your comfortably simple bed, where you have a really nice dream about riding an elephant, who also happens to be your best friend and speaks fluent Taiwanese and teaches you all the best catchphrases and knows exactly where to find the best

FLY ME TO THE MOOOON AND LET ME SWING AMONG THE STARRRRRRRSS 

SHITPOCKETS!  How can someone bitchslap me out of my sleep with what I would normally consider a relatively soothing song??

IN OTHER WORDS, PLEASE BE TRRUUUUUEEEE!!

BA-DA-DA-DUM!!!

Christ.  I forgot about that goddam brass fanfare.

Guess it doesn’t really matter.  But this is a repeat offender, so it’s obviously someone who either lives here or visits regularly, however I can never predict when he’ll strike.  So what do you do?

A)  Quietly fume and call the police to report a noise disturbance

B)  Take it as a cue that this guy wants to start an impromptu flashmob and run outside and begin to dance

C) Say fuck it, pour yourself 2 fingers of bourbon, and sit down to your computer… and begin to plot your revenge.

You can see I opted for number C.

So I’ve been awake since about 1.  And it’s just been downright goddam delightful, because I continue to be serenaded by the most efficient ghetto blaster of a car audio system.  I’m actually kind of impressed by his guts to keep blowing this shit because this is, for the most part, an incredibly tame neighborhood.  I would have thought some strong-willed patriarch from another apartment would have surely paid him a visit at some point.  But I guess I shouldn’t speculate because I’m sure as shit not wasting my time going out there.

Plus, I’ve lived in a noisy neighborhood before where this type of crap happened on the regular.  During my junior year of college I moved in with an amazing friend from work and we lived in the low-rent, thin-walled, undergrad party central.  The only problem was we didn’t really get down as hard as our classmates, who proved to be MARATHON partiers.  They could start at 3pm chugging insurmountable quantities of Bud and Coors, knock it off by sunrise, sleep like vampires for the better part of the day and come alive again at 3pm the next day, ready to begin all over again.  And god save you if it was LSU’s football season.

Basically, I’ve learned that calling the cops is relatively futile, and by the time you’re awake enough to realize what’s going on, you might as well take a deep breath and join the party.

But I think I already mentioned before.  If someone compromises my sleep, they’re essentially compromising my sanity.  And… also… I think I’ve mentioned this before, too.  I’m a vindictive bitch.

And you, sir, just poured yourself a perfect storm.

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