The boyfriend of the guy downstairs is visiting for the weekend. He comes to town for any gay event where he gets to take his shirt off and show off his lobster-colored musculature. I usually take the occasion of his visits to stay on the hill at BC’s, but Reese is spending the night, snoozing away in the next room, bless his melatonin level, and I will be kept up all night by the sounds of their operatic love making in the bedroom below. Really, all night. It’s not just headboard banging or little moans–the house shakes, the windows rattle, they scream, fall off the bed many many times, make really loud promises to each other that even I know they won’t keep, and seem to impart more fluids than seem humanly possible to replenish in such a short span. This is all prefaced by the 2 hour–what, shower? I don’t know exactly what is being cleaned and how, but I can hear water running for 2 hours. Bob used to love listening to the sounds of their boinking, indeed he was quite inspired, but I still wash dishes by soaping them first and then rinsing, like we did in the drought, and can’t get past the 2 hour, what, douche? Remember washing the car with a CUP of water? Stop the presses, I smell a cigarette being smoked in the garden… Glory be, I’m going to get some sleep tonight.
Tales of Post-Twinkie Ennui