No One Should Be Up at This Hour

No one should be up at this hour. It's before noon on a weekend day. It's before nine on a weekend day. Despite the fact that I went to bed at 3:46am for reasons I will not discuss here (okay, I'm just a night owl, you dragged it outta me), I am awake a mere five hours later. This was not my plan. As you can imagine, my plan was to sleep until I was NOT TIRED ANYMORE, because that never happens during the week. It's such a fabulous weekend luxury. Go to bed when I want, get up when I want and alarm clocks have nothing to do with it. I know, crazy idea, but I put in my Church and Puritan Work Ethic years. I've already done that time--staying up late on Saturdays (because I'm a night owl), and then waking up at o'dark thirty to Bless the Lord, O My Soul with All That is Within Me. Been there, done that. I believed it made me a better person and now I don't, so now I stay up late on Saturday nights (because I'm a night owl) and then sleep until I'm NOT TIRED ANYMORE. I get plenty done in my life, just not before noon on the weekends. But "damn my shit" if I ain't up when I'm still tired. Let me tell you why.


Because MOTHBALL STROGANOFF MAN is concocting toxic fumes in his laundry room just below our bedroom. He may think he's just doing laundry, but in reality he's slowly killing us. There is no insulation between us to keep out his noxious doings. At 8:25am I woke up on a Sunday morning not because I WASN'T TIRED ANYMORE, but because my eyes, nose and throat burned. Happy F&%Kin' Sunday mornin' to you, too. WTF? I have a giant headache now in addition to the low grade headache I always have. Thanks a LOT buddy. I'm Forever Grateful To You. (You Jesus Freaks, current or former will know what I mean.)


Last night I walked into the house to discover that he was making Mothball Stroganoff, his favorite meal, while smoking. Charming. There is an explicit no smoking policy in this historic building which everyone else seems to be able to adhere to. What makes him so special? Our entire apartment smelled like smoke. If I wanted to smoke, I'd set myself on fire.


Perhaps I need to embrace diversity. Perhaps I haven't fully explored the finer qualities of Smoked Mothball Stroganoff. Perhaps I should ask for the recipe!