Losing Yourself

Ok, straight up, your life is going to constantly be changing, evolving, and messing itself up. This is not totally a bad thing. New people will come into your life, old people will fade away. Your job will change, even if you don’t change jobs. iPhones will keep getting bigger and bigger until they look like something Zack Morris would’ve used. And parts of you are going to change to keep up with all of this.

That being said, a lot of this change is good change. Changing job responsibilities means the chance to learn new shit (or learning new shit could lead to changing job responsibilities, either way). New phones mean new apps (which I am completely addicted to, btw.). We are constantly moving to new apartments, buying kittens and puppies, re-painting the livingroom walls for the 4th time, and picking up new hobbies.

All of these changes, that seem to come naturally in your life, pretty much are good things. They’re things that help you grow as a person, that help you evolve.

Then there are the changes that could go either way. That’s where all the new people in your life come into play.

You see, meeting someone new and amazing does something to us all. Our brains for from “Well, it’s Wednesday night, so I’d better grab my glass of wine and paint my nails while I watch Criminal Minds and read Cosmo” to “OMFG you are so freaking AWESOME!!!!!! Let’s hang out every fucking night!!! We can be besties!!!!! We can be together ALL THE FUCKING TIME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Don’t believe me? Just think back to any time ANY of your friends EVER got into a new relationship with someone. You guys used to spend Friday nights together, drinking beers and watching movies, until it became “date night”. Suddenly, you’re sitting alone at the bar, whining to the bartender about how you’re going to be single forever, while your BFF is out at a wine and cheese taster bar trying to match blue cheese with a Malbec (which is not a good idea, btw). It’s like your friend was abducted by love-aliens and replaced with this strange being who likes to go to Ikea and hold hands while looking at shit and saying “Oooh, if we got those throw pillows, and that bookcase over there, we could make a nook!”

Ok, now admit it: it’s not just your friends who have done that. We all have. I once dated a guy in university who was into bluegrass music and curling. I now know way too much about curling and Norweigan curling pants, and can actually sing along to some Flying Burrito Brothers songs. I also had stopped hanging out with my BFF and our frat-house friends most nights, started marathoning TV shows online (and this was before Netflix made it so damn easy to do. We had to work for our Drew Carey Show!). I was like this person that wasn’t totally me, but that I wouldn’t exactly throw shit at if I met them in public. I was like this shell, totally empty of the things that used to be me, and not filling up with any new awesome things to replace them. Instead of evolving, learning new things, picking up a new hobby that really interested me, I was just like this extension of the dude I was seeing.

And that’s when I lost myself.

There is a big difference between “changing bit by bit, bettering or evolving your tastes and yourself, in order to keep up with the times and not get into a rut that will bore you to tears” and “changing everything about you to match up with the person you’re spending all your time with”.

This is something that has been on my mind quite a bit lately, too.

You see, I just started seeing someone. Beginning of last month, I went out on a limb and flirted with this really really cute customer I’d see at work every day. He came back in later and left his phone number for me. We went out that weekend, and it turns out we have so much in common, it’s almost mind-blowing. Recently, we’ve been spending more and more time together (he was there for me quite a bit while I was going through that huge health scare and surgery thing with mum), and just this week decided to become an official couple.

But no matter how much alike we are, we are still different in a lot of ways. There are a lot of things we’d each like to try that the other likes, just to know each other better. He is willing to watch my favourite movies with me (which, with my odd taste, is something none of my exes ever did), and I’m willing to give Trailer Park Boys a chance if he’ll watch it with me. At the same time, though, I’m careful not to let this become some all-consuming quest to do all the things he does.

Case in point: Criminal Minds. He hates that show, refuses to watch it. That show gives me life. So if he’s over on a Wednesday night, we skip it and I stream the episode the next day online. If he’s not here, then I get a night with wine and Dr. Spencer Reid. While things are new and fresh, we’re taking time to learn more about each other and each other’s interests. But at the same time, we’re encouraging each other to just be ourselves.

Right now, we’re both at weird places in our lives. I’m working VERY part time, wishing I had put more effort into my writing over the years. He’s working full-time, but not in a position in his company that he can stay in much longer. On top of our regular everyday personal issues we deal with, we’re both contemplating our financial futures while trying not to let our present fall to shit. While we have that in common, our actual jobs (or possible jobs) couldn’t be more different. So, we encourage each other. He is constantly telling me that I need to write, that I’m a storyteller, that I need to get stuff down on paper or computer. He knows that I want to write, but just have had less than zero encouragement over the last decade or so. I know that he loves his company, but not the position he’s in. I try to help him look at other positions to look into there, things he can train into, in order to move to a completely different job there.

Do you see the differences there? Instead of giving up my favourite show, or making our current situation all about his need for a new job, we compromise. We help each other to grow, to learn. Any sort of healthy relationship, whether it be romantic or not, helps you grow into the best you that you can be. In my past relationship I mentioned, I gave up on growing “me” and instead grew to be “an appendage of him”. I totally lost myself.

It happens to the best of us, Sunshine. But we learn from it, grow from it, and move on with our lives.

So, with all this encouragement to write, expect to hear from me a bit more. Things at my current place have become……. interesting. I may have some new Roommates From Hell posts coming VERY soon!

Roommates from Hell: The People Upstairs

When I first moved into my dirty old apartment, we didn’t have the two students living above us. For a short time, while the building manager was ill, a property management company came in and helped fill the vacant apartments. This company is well known in this city for not properly vetting their clients, and renting to some pretty shady characters. So, the apartment above mine was rented out by them.

At first, the people there seemed nice, from what I was told. It was supposedly a young mother with her baby son, and her boyfriend would be staying there on and off. They seemed nice enough, and the apartment was rented out to them.

Turns out, that wasn’t who would be living there, really. Yes, she had a baby son living with her, but she also had a daughter there too. And her boyfriend moved in full time. And so did his brother. And their two friends. And two cats and a few Dobermans. Then the Rottweiler. Did I mention these small, two bedroom apartments had a “no pets” clause in the lease?

People started moving in slowly. When the property manager would stop by, the girl would say that her friend was helping her with her kids that day, or that there were so many guys there because they were going to have a guys night and play poker.

What they were really all doing there was growing marijuana.

It turns out, they were growing, drying, and then selling marijuana from the apartment. They also were NOT cleaning, or paying bills, or taking care of the kids living there.

When I went to first look at the apartment, before we rented, the building manager told us that the tenants upstairs were being evicted and would be out before we moved in.

Well that didn’t happen.

They were served with an eviction notice, and ignored it. They had their power shut off, which inadvertently shut down the power to my apartment as well. Didn’t bother them, they brought in noisy, stinky generators. They got served with ANOTHER eviction notice, and ignored it. Finally, the building manager said that he was going to get the police involved, which apparently scared the people with the illegal grow-op in their apartment. They started making arrangements to move.

Until then, they raised hell.

We couldn’t sleep at night because they would be up all night, stomping and screaming and yelling. We still had no power, because when the power company came around to turn it on, they scared them away. The stink from their apartment was starting to waft through the hallways and down the staircases. They started throwing things out their apartment windows, without taking out the screens first: they just ripped them open.

One day, the threw their cats out the second floor windows. One landed and ran away. The other hobbled around, and you could see that it was sick. Some mechanics from the shop across the street took it in, and had a veterinarian friend of their come take a look at it. That vet said he had never seen a more abused, diseased cat before. Its bones had been broken, it was sick with almost a dozen different things, and its eyes were so infected that they crusted shut. They put the poor thing in a shoe box to make it comfortable, and it passed away a few hours later.

Once the poor cat was gone, a group of very large, very angry mechanics showed up on the doorstep upstairs, looking for whomever had hurt that poor thing. I don’t know what was said, but those people moved out a few days later.

The building manager and two of the tenants who had been in the building more than 25 years decided to do a walk-through of the apartment together, to see the damage. I don’t think they were quite expecting what they saw.

The carpeting in the bedrooms was ripped up, and they had let their dogs poop under it. There were garbage bags full of old diapers, rotten food, and cat litter all over the apartment. They had stopped using the toilet once they were told the police would be called on them, and started peeing on the floor, covering the puddles up with the kids’ clothes. In some areas, they had even punched holes in the walls and had shoved garbage in there.

The building manager said it would take at least a week to clean, and that the chemical smell would be pretty bad. Also, we wouldn’t be getting our power turned on until this was cleaned up, because they had to do both apartments at once for some reason, and there was feces shoved in the electrical outlets. Luckily, summer exams had just ended and my parents lived just across town. The roommate and I both packed our bags and bunked out in my old bedroom at my parents’ house.

In the end, they had to replace a few walls, rip out all the carpeting, and use industrial strength cleaners to get that apartment clean again. One of the other tenants who was helping cut his hand while cleaning up the cat litter, and his hand got so infected he wound up in the hospital for almost a week, getting his hand drained and his body pumped full of antibiotics. The doctors had never seen an infection that bad from touching cat poop, and said that the cat that came from as too sick to exist.

That was quite the experience, having to deal with all that. And that is why you check out the neighbours before you move into a new place, sunshine!

Roommates From Hell: The Break-In Upstairs

I once shared an apartment with a friend of mine. It was a dirty little place, where the hardwood floors never seemed to get clean. I couldn’t wear white socks at home, because they would turn black. This is the same place that had no air conditioning, and most of the windows didn’t open properly, so I was forced to sleep on a busted love seat in the living room. The only good thing about the whole place was the bedroom closet in my bedroom (all I want in life is my own place with a really big closet and a great big bathtub).

And the neighbours were some of the worst.

Now, there were actually worse neighbours living in the apartment upstairs when we first moved in, but they deserve their own entire post. After they left, and the apartment was sanitized, two young business students moved in upstairs. One had his very lovely parents come help him move in, and the other looked like a skinnier Thor in a rock band. The first few weeks, they seemed like very nice people.

Then, they got comfortable.

It started with the late nights. They would wear their heavy boots and clomp around, dancing with friends in high heels, blasting music all night. The staircase separating our apartments from the other two in the building muffled the sounds for them, so we got the brunt of it. They started smoking marijuana in their apartment, which was strictly forbidden in the lease (we had even created a smoking area in the back yard for anyone who smoked anything). Then, they started selling marijuana out of their apartment.

None of us knew about this latest development until one night in January, when whey were out at the bars again. I was curled up on the loveseat, trying to relax before bed, while the roommate sat in his chair watching cat videos on his laptop. Suddenly, we heard the complex doors open and someone come storming in, loudly yelling and stomping up the stairs. They stopped in the landing……. and loudly vomited everywhere. Even with my apartment door shut, I could smell it. Someone had extra garlic that night!

Then, they drudged through the puke and up the rest of the stairs, to the front door of the apartment upstairs. At first, they pounded on the door. Then they yelled and screamed. Then I heard kicking, and wood splintering. I tried to call the guys in the other apartment upstairs, but no answer. Turns out everyone was out that night, and my roommate and I were the only ones in the complex.

When we heard stomping up in the locked and empty apartment upstairs, I grabbed my phone to call the police. The stomping moved from the apartment, to the stairs, and back again, over and over. When I heard someone pound on my door, demanding I find the guys upstairs, I grabbed the biggest knife I own, hid my roommate in the bathroom (he couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag if you cut the bottom open for him), and told the dispatcher to tell the police to hurry.

The pounding stopped, the stomping upstairs started again, and then there was the sound of glass breaking and a giant thud. When the cops got there not even a minute later, they found a young university student, higher than a giraffe’s nut sack, half passed out on the livingroom floor upstairs, the remnants of a few (very expensive) bongs broken all around him. They arrested him, took a quick statement from me, and left a note on the now splintered and broken front door of the apartment upstairs, all the while trying to avoid the puke all over the hallway floors.

About an hour later, while I was still too wound up to sleep, I heard the guys in that apartment come home with a friend. She refused to walk through the puke, so Thor carried her. They got to their front door, where the note from the police was, and saw the broken glass all over their floor, and did what any concerned, responsible adults would do: they grabbed some of their weed, grabbed some booze, and went to her house.

The next morning, I left a message for the building manager about what happened. He said the cops called him that morning too, telling him what they found. He had called the guys upstairs, who told him that they didn’t come home at all that night, and were with a sick friend all day as well. I called them out on their bull, told the building manager about them coming home the previous night.

When it later came out that this guy broke into their apartment looking for drugs, and that they were selling them out of the apartment, things changed quickly around there. First, those boys had to pay for both the new door and all of the cleaning and repairs to the stairs and hallway. Apparently, the puke was so bad in some places it made the paint on the walls bubble. Then, the building manager called their emergency contacts, which happened to be their parents, to tell them that the apartment had been broken into and could they please double check with their boys to make sure nothing of value was stolen. He played it off as a concerned friend, calling to make sure these poor, shaken boys had someone there to help comfort them and to think clearly about what they own of value. When Thor’s mom showed up at their door, saw large bags of weed on the table, and read the copy of the police report that was left for the boys, she went outside to wait in a damn blizzard for the other boy’s parents.

This was by far one of the scariest things to happen to me once I moved out for school. I didn’t know why that boy was kicking in the door there, or what he wanted, or if he would try the same thing at my apartment if he didn’t find what he wanted upstairs. I kept a few steak knives on the end table at night, for security, until I accidentally sliced my palm open reaching for my phone one morning.

But that’s the past. After that semester ended, those boys moved out, and I never saw them again. I wish I could say I wonder what happened to them, but the only time I think of them is when I tell this story.

Until next time, sunshine!

Taking Time For You

As I said on Friday, you need to slow down. Yes, you. The one reading this right now.

I know sitting at your computer, reading random ramblings on WordPress, doesn’t seem like something you need to slow down from. But what else are you doing? Are you at work? Studying? Writing a paper? How many tabs do you have open right now, and be honest with yourself. While you’re reading this, you’re probably reading 3 or 4 other websites, have a notebook open somewhere near you, maybe an open book or stack of paperwork, and are thinking about what you need to get done later on today.

Is that really relaxing?

I had a friend, after my health crisis in University, try to get me to meditate. It had always worked for her in the past, helping her relax when her brain wouldn’t slow down. I followed her steps, met with her meditation group, lit the candles and chanted the mantras. All that happened for me was I wound up sitting there for an hour, wondering how much other stuff I could have gotten done in that time. While the dozen or so people around me seemed to transform from tightly wound workaholics to completely relaxed and chilled out, I was more stressed afterwards than when I got there.

Another friend brought me to yoga. Again, this was something she swore by. I already did stretching and random yoga poses at home while watching tv, so it seemed like something I could get into. Instead, I was a miserable stress case. Again, my brain wouldn’t shut off, just like in meditation. But this time, on top of that, I was worrying about the yoga poses. Being a yoga noob, I couldn’t pull off any of the advanced (or even intermediate) poses that I thought looked so easy. I stressed myself out over being so unflexible, and out of shape. Then I got stressed because I was sure unflexible wasn’t a real word, but I couldn’t think of a real word to mean what I thought. Again, I left more stressed out than when I got there.

So, after losing myself in thought on my walk to work one day, I came up with my own relaxation method. I like to daydream. I’m always lost in though while I walk, remembering parts of dreams or story ideas. I’d daydream about saving my co-workers from armed robbers, or learning to cook a fish dish so amazing that Gordon Ramsay shows up on my doorstep in a Speedo to try it. When people offered me rides places, I turned them down so that I could walk and get lost in my thoughts for a bit.

Daydreams are my escape. I can imagine winning the lottery, or the boyfriend taking me to the petting zoo, or my awesome co-worker just being goofy and making me laugh. I can imagine the fantastic or the ordinary, the impossible or the probable. In my head, there are ninjas, samurai, hobbits, narwhals, dragons, and even Batman (or a reasonable (and half naked) facsimile thereof). The world inside my head is awesome, and it’s all mine!

So, every night, no matter how much I have to do or how stressed I am, I go to that world. I imagine Batman coming to save me from danger, and then me having to save him when the danger gets a little out of control, and then him getting to thank me. What a better way to end the day then with that image in my head as I get ready for bed?

My method might not work for everyone. That’s why it’s my method. I made it for me, because it works best for me. As I said, meditation and yoga work great for some people. Other people need books, or a massage, or a sensory deprivation tank. The main thing is you need to find what works for YOU. Only you know what you need.

A Few Words on Self-Care

I’m not going to lie: life can really suck sometimes. It seems like you are constantly on the go, never getting any time for yourself. Then, the rare time you do get a few hours free, you’re so overwhelmed with all the things you need to get done that you can’t just sit and relax. Day in, day out, it’s just go-go-go……….. until one day, it feels like you can’t go anymore.

That, my friends, is burnout. And we all get it at some point.

And yes, it really really sucks.

As I said Wednesday, my schedule is a little crazy right now. There are days, when I finally get a little me-time, when I multi-task my relaxing. I will watch TV, flip through Cosmo, read a book, have a glass or two of wine, and take notes for writing projects, all at the same time. And it’s really not healthy.

There will come a time when all of this go-go-go will start to get to you. It will be harder to get out of bed in the morning, and harder to fall asleep at night. Maybe you won’t be able to quiet your brain at night, or turn it back on when you need it most. You’ll spend your free moments making to-do lists, going over what you need to get done.

At one point in my University career, my health and body just gave up. I was taking 4 classes a semester, working two on-campus jobs (research assistant, and teaching assistant). I was on the Board of Directors for an activist group, and headed up their Fundraising and Events Planning committee. I volunteered in our campus Academic Advising Centre. I helped run Welcome Week events, gave talks to parents of prospective students, recruited students for multiple on-campus organizations, volunteered at local Fraternity events, joined the association for my major AND the one for one of my minors, and did independent research into what I had wanted to do a Psych Thesis on.

Then my health got in the way. First was the ear infection that winter, which got so bad it gave me random bouts of vertigo. This resulted in me passing out in a 7-11 near campus, and having to be rushed my ambulance to the hospital.  Then, the food poisoning hit me that summer. After spending 7 months researching e.coli as part of my job, I got a mild case of it. And by mild, I mean I spent 4 days in the bathroom, and had to be put on an IV for fluids more than once in a two week span. The real kicker came at the end of the summer, when I was gearing up for the next school year.

In the midst of thesis advisor meetings, preliminary research, summer class finals, a new workout regime, Welcome Week preparations, and a long-distance relationship, my mother had to rush me to the hospital. One day I woke up, and was so weak I couldn’t get out of bed. It took me 45 minutes to crawl across my bedroom, and down the hall less than 8 feet to the bathroom. Once there, all I could do was vomit. Then the headache started. I was put in isolation at the hospital for three days, while they gave me morphine and dilauded to try and stop the pain in my head (and they didn’t work, either). After blood work, a lumbar puncture, brain scans, and a fever of 105, the doctor told me it looked like West Nile.

This was my wake-up. I had to slow down, or else my recovery could kill me. I was under strict orders not to exercise, or over exert myself. I dropped down to 3 classes, and eventually dropped my Thesis due to the stress. I started planning more, procrastinating less, and getting things done bit by bit instead of a giant panic all at once. I even (mostly) gave up my all-nighters. Instead of trying to run committees I had no interest in and didn’t even like being a part of, I stayed home and watched Buffy on Netflix with the boyfriend (once he was back in town for school).

Basically, I gave up what I didn’t need. Why bother staying a part of an organization I was getting nothing out of, and wasn’t fully contributing to, when I could focus on the things that mattered most? When I had some health set-backs (most likely due to that fever that wouldn’t break causing a bit of damage that needed time to heal), I didn’t have to worry about getting in touch with 40 people to cover all my extra-curriculars while I was in hospital. I could just focus on being healthy.

Today, I still have a hectic schedule. I take time for me now, though. I’ll watch Netflix on my phone on my lunch break. I’ll make a point of painting my nails once or twice a week, so I’m forced to relax while they dry. Once a month, I take a half-day on a Sunday to just do all the stupid beauty crap I would normally put off, like dyeing my hair and putting on a face mask.And I take 20 minutes each night, right before bed, to just sit in my room, alone, and daydream.

I take care of me, now. And you should do the same for you, too. Yes, you can have your packed schedule, and your Do-It-All mentality. But you also need to have a Don’t-Work-Yourself-Into-An-Early-Grave mentality. When you start to feel worn down, that is your body’s way of telling you slow down a bit. So schedule in some time to relax, do a little something for you each day.

In the immortal words of the 90’s sexiest FBI agent, Dale Cooper, “Every day, once a day, give yourself a present. Don’t plan it. Don’t wait for it. Just let it happen. It could be a new shirt at the men’s store, a catnap in your office chair, or two cups of good, hot black coffee.”

Damn good coffee!

The Tale of My Chronic Hives

Hey there friendship, sorry for the long pause.

I’ve been moving this last month.  Since I am stubborn, and broke, and have no job, and my student loans are running out, I decided to do 90% of the move using backpacks and reusable shopping bags, walking my things over. I had a bit of help from my mommy, though. She drove my dresser and bookcase over…… and the giant pile of textbooks I’ve somehow accumulated in this whole “higher education” thing. As if the move wasn’t stressful enough, something quite odd happened…….

The boy who lived in the room I’m renting is a friend of mine. I’ve known him through his frat since he was just a little rush-ling. I knew he wasn’t overly concerned with cleaning, but had  no clue how far that went.  After he moved out, he left piles of his things behind, saying he’d be back for them “later”. He also left a disgusting mess. There were tortilla chips and sunflower seeds all over the floor, which hadn’t been vacuumed in more than a year. We (my boyfriend, my other new roommate, and I) vacuumed every inch of the room, repeatedly. Afterwards, I moved some furniture around and sat on the carpet to put a few books on the little bookcase near the bed. That’s when the hives started…… on the 9th of July.

This is July 30th. So far, I have had 5 appointments with my on-campus doctor. I have had blood work done 3 times, and have the paperwork for more. I have had an emergency dermatology appointment. I’ve been on prednisone (a powerful steroid that makes me hyper and puffy), Benadryl, extra-strength ibuprofen, and have a prescription for an EpiPen. My eyes have swollen shut more than once.  I had to go to a job interview with lips so swollen, I looked like the victim of a botched collagen job. In this heat and humidity (it’s been averaging 80F, but feels like 100F+ with humidity), I have to walk around in long pants and long sleeves. My body is entirely covered in hives. And believe me, I do mean ENTIRELY covered. TMI, there are hives in my butt crack.

We’ve scrubbed all the walls here twice. We took down the blinds and soaked them in the tub with dish soap. We rented a steam cleaner, which I ran over this carpet 4 times. I even steam cleaned the mattress in here.  The doctor’s aren’t entirely sure why I’m still hive-tastic. Their best guess right now is that this room was so disgustingly, horribly, stomach-churningly filthy that, when I had an allergic to reaction to something here, the filth made my reaction stronger than it should have been. And now, that reaction has just gone crazy.

So what does this have to do with roommate? EVERYTHING!

Once you’re out of your parents’ house and living with other people, your mommy and daddy aren’t going to be around to clean up after you. You are going to have to do things like vacuum, wash floors, scrub toilets, and even take out the trash. The boy who lived her before me is still friends with a lot of my friends, and with my boyfriend.  How do you think they’ll treat him after seeing what his filthiness did to me?

Just because you don’t want to clean, doesn’t mean you don’t have to.

Exam Time Ragers

Well hey there sunshine! Top of the mornin’ to ya!

It’s bright and early here, and I’m downing coffee like it’s water. It’s finals week here for the Intersession classes, such as the two I took this semester. My first exam is today at noon. That means long days and nights of studying, attempting to get a half-way decent amount of sleep…… and pounding on my roommate’s door at 3:30am to tell his random friends to pipe the fuck down*

Now, this roommate isn’t exactly known for being considerate (or for having read the terms of the lease). Why, just a few days ago I had to leave a note on the fridge listing all of my things from the kitchen that have gone missing and I want back. (After a frantic search on his behalf, I got less than half of it back. He then proceeded to use my kitchen utensils.) And last semester, after asking me more than half a dozen times when my last exam was, he brought home a dozen or so friends just after midnight, two days before my last exam. Last night was the absolute worst, though.

I had passed out a few hours before and did not hear Tweedle Dumbass and his entourage come in. If they had just kept the noise down, I probably wouldn’t have noticed at all. But he had to thrown on the techno music, with it’s loud thumping bass. **thuwmp**thuwmp**thuwmp** thuwmp**thuwmp**thuwmp** Then his friends, even though they couldn’t be more than a few feet from each other in that room, started yelling to each other.

“I hope no one tries to touch my boobs!”

“We should all just get naked!”

“Seriously, no one better try to touch my boobs!”

“Oh my god guys! I’m wearing one shoe!”

“Goddamn it! Why isn’t anyone trying to touch my boobs!”

**thuwmp**thuwmp**thuwmp**thuwmp**thuwmp**thuwmp**thuwmp**thuwmp**thuwmp**

A little before 3am, I woke up.  I pulled a pillow over my head and tried to block out the noise. Surely they won’t be here much longer, I naively thought. By 3am, the urge to pee was rising almost as fast as my urge to slap someone with a raw tuna. 3:15am, that tuna urge had changed from raw to a bag of cans. By 3:30am, I couldn’t take much more of the noise or the throbbing in my bladder (made worse with every **thwump** that shook the walls). I got up to use the bathroom (located right next to his bedroom)…… and the toilet was vibrating was the music.

That was the last straw. Have you ever been half asleep, fully pissed off, with a bladder ready to burst, and have to sit on a toilet that is vibrating to some random techno song set to infinite repeat? My ass is still tingling. After flushing, washing, and resisting the urge to puncture a can of shaving cream and throw it in his room like a foaming grenade, I pounded on his door.

Dumbass didn’t even have the decency to open it himself.  He had a friend come talk to me.

Now, I was half asleep still, with a tingling ass from the vibrating toilet, and didn’t have a shred of patience left in me for this guy. So I let loose with a string of…… something. Like I said, I was half asleep. I’m pretty sure the words “pipe the fuck down” were said, along with an expletive-peppered request to shut up and turn off the music.

In the end, they turned down the music, but kept up the voices. For at least another 45 minutes, they shouted to each other across a tiny room. Every now and then you could hear someone “shhhhushhh” the others, but that would only last a few seconds at best.

So, here I am: one hour before I have to leave for my exam. I’m running on almost no sleep, am in a panic about the exam itself, and am filled with injurous rage. Tweedle Dumbass appears to have fled with his friends in the night, avoiding my wrath.

He can’t stay away forever, though.

*yes, I watch a lot of Jenna Marbles videos on my study breaks.