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Now, this really probably belongs to the '--garbage--' section, but for some reason I wanted to put it up here.
Enjoy, you sick bastards.
I'd make the best of my time right now and sit down to write now but anything I wrote wouldn't be any good, I fear. It would be laced through and through with the hazardous VENOM I have for the pair of F L A M I N G drunks in the room next to me. They stumble in the door at 2:30 in the morning on the one night I actually need to get some F U C K I N G S L E E P. My dad and his wasted new girlfriend whom he likes very much, you know. First, it was the drunk talk. You know the kind... the too-loud, mindless blather that infests pick-up holes across the nation. Blood-curdling "You know, I like you", "I really like you too" T R A S H which could really be served on a different occasion. Perhaps a time when there's daylight perhaps a time when I'm out of the fucking house. Any time but now. Now I want to sleep. Is that unreasonable? So during that part of the night, I tried putting pillows on either side of my head. It didn't work. Second, came the shrieking, sobbing, and the crying. You see, this woman is a retard under the best of circumstances and I'm being very generous. So with the intellect-boosting powers of alcohol, she's just a regular Stephen Hawkings. She seems to like to burst into crying fits accompanied with some kind of ridiculous cliche like, "Oh, you're my knight in shining armor", but of course it sounds more like, "Augh, yer my light in sign arms" and it would no doubt be more appropriate coming from an anorexic 16 year old with no sense of hope or reality. Now normally, I can tolerate, if not understand, sobbing out your problems. But not at what is now 3:30 in the morning. Not when I have to get up early. And not coming from a drunk. Drunks just have nothing of interest to say. Not when they're blitzed out of their tree, especially. Because as I've said before addiction is not a disease but a weakness ... but that's another story. So she shrieks on and on. Shrieks... that's really the only word for it. And then there's my father who's own worn, patronizingdrunk tones penetrate walls with a rich, awful bass to compliment her high treble whining. At stage two I still have the pillows against my ears. It still doesn't work. So next is stage three... Where even my wasted out father figure starts to think this chick is just off her tits and that he's fighting all uphill. So what does he do? He folds the couch into a bed (a marvel of technology, really) and tried to lure her into it. And after enough time he succeeds and gets his dink wet. Squeaking bed coils... odd animal noises... I think I heard a couple of Scottish burrs in there too... It's at this point when I realize that even hearing loss has it's advantages one of such, being the ability to S L E E P amidst drunks fucking in the next room. And she makes noises that just... don't make sense unless he's clubbing her with a frozen fish which in actuality might be wha--- ew. It is at this point when I abandon the pillows around my head and stuff my fingers directly into my ears while banging my head on my mattress. So they thump away off into the night and into stage four. Stage four begins when I think they're done making hairy monkey babies. I figure, "Hey... it's over... now... now they'll probably S H U T T H E F U C K U P and go to sleep!" I mean, it's not a far fetched idea, is it? But... this is me we're talking about. Could I be so lucky? F U C K N O. They just... keep... talking. Too-loud talking with her thinking spilling her guts now is the solution to all of lifes problems and him using that same damned voice which is at just the right pitch so that it melts through walls. So I abandon all hope of rest. I remove my fingers from my ears, for what good they did. They gave a mean effort, my fingers did... but they just plain got beat. Now I go out into the kitchen, pour a drink, go back to my room, have a slice of pizza or two, turn on the lights, turn on the stereo and pick up a pen and paper. I say t hey can eat shit. And I say they can both heave in the same toilet tomorrow with matching his and hers hangovers. That would be nice. Fitting. But with your hardcore alcoholic types, well, they just by-pass the whole hangover idea. Not in the program, thanks for coming out though. So now I figure, I just keep playing the music and I just keep writing because now they're fucking A G A I N. So I turn the music up more and shake my head with back-of-the-throat disgust because it's 5:25 am and I think if this shit keeps up I'm going to Tim Hortons for a chocolate milk, a boston creme, and a good, long cry (or shriek).
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