loves my sleeps

Two-thirty this morning I was a raging incoherent thing. As incoherent as a person can be with no one to talk to. My thoughts were mad dashers, slamming trapped within frustration's walls.

Two-thirty and I'd been asleep for hours, but then the bass began. It vibrated my walls; I could hear every word of the song, I could hear Jackass's friends sing every word, the front door slammed again and again and rattled the frame of the house.

It was horrible. Especially considering the conversation Jackass and I had last week, and two weeks before that, and how sweet and considerate he was, how we worked out an acceptable loud-music & friends schedule.

He's a pushover, says Landlady, he's a go-alonger who can't say no to his friends. I don't care anymore, I just want it to stop. Their loud conversation and smoke filled my apartment. I called Jackass's cell phone but it was turned off, had to leave a message.

Talked to Landlady this morning and she understands. She'll either change the locks and ask that he move elsewhere (he's 18, his mom's been in the hospital) or forbid him to have friends over. I'm not happy with either solution, but this is a boy who hasn't learned to respect his co-habitors, and I loves my sleeps like little else.

What kept me hanging on, what kept me from going Bursar, was the fluff on my bed. One fluffer to my right, two to my left. I ran my hands over their faces, their paws, their backbones as the bass shook our walls, and promised them a better night's sleep tonight.