I had a very, very bad dream this morning. At least I think, I assume that I did - I can't say I remember any specifics. The only thing I do remember is opening my eyes, propping my chest up on my elbows, and yelling "FUCK YOU!!" at the absolute, most eardrum-shattering top of my voice. I think Mac must have about shit the bed - when I came to my senses a few seconds later, she was recoiled as if from a giant praying mantis, eyes like saucers, saying, "Cheech? Sweetie? You there?" I grunted, "Guh," or some similarly witty rejoinder, blinked a few times, and the next thing I remember was waking up for real, a couple hours later.
It's not the first time that something like this has happened. A few years ago, I had a vaguely similar, though less-well-remembered incident, in which I sat up, slapped the wall HARD with a flat palm, and went right back to sleep. I can only imagine that the guy in the apartment across the hall, whose bedroom shares a wall with ours (I know it's his bedroom. Trust me.) must think I'm a wife beater. Thank god that Mrs. Arone is very good at keeping calm in these types of situations. One errant terrified scream, and I'm in the back of a paddy wagon.
The walls here aren't so bad, though. When I first moved to San Francisco, I had almost no money, and took a room in a $90-a-week crack hotel. Among many other interesting ...features?... of the old building were the ludicrously thin walls. I could literally hear my next-door neighbor fart through the one-inch plywood walls. And since one of the walls was against nothing but naked outside air - it backed up to no other buildings or anything - I froze my nuts off nightly. Can a body feel wind through a wall? I dunno, but if so, then I felt it.
The old upstairs neighbors moved out a few months ago too, which sucks out loud. I think they wore slippers or something all day. Sure, it sounded like they were bowling up there once in a while, but as a rule, they were quiet as an emo church mouse. The new guys, whose cat you've already met, are loud. Always. The cat is a ball-baby bitch, crying like its ass is on fire all the time. The 14-year-old has either a PS3 or XBOX 360, with, I shit you not, Dance Dance Revolution as what I can only assume is his favorite fucking game - I am right this very second being stomped upon from above. He does keep that to daylight hours, however, then switches to what sounds like some kind of first-person shooter, like Halo or Call of Duty. I hate those fucking shooters, but that's more likely because I am an old bastard who stinks up the joint when I try to play them.
Sigh. I guess the world doesn't owe me shit, does it?
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