Oh my god. I feel like warmed over death.
Last night after my bizarre Dyna Girl entry, I took some of Esteban’s happy golden sleep medicine and then went to lay down in our bedroom.
For a little while, I thought I was delirious. I mean, I could hear this bizarre shit music. Who let the dogs out indeed? Then I could hear voices. Amplified voices. I wiped the drool off my face and went back into the office where Esteban was working on an article.
“Do you hear music?”
“Yeah. The neighbors three houses down are having a party.”
I must have spouted a bunch of obscenities at that point but I don’t remember. I’m thinking it must have been bad because Esteban then asks “Do you want me to call the Police?”
And for some reason, I thought he meant Sting, Andrew Summers and Stuart Copeland. And this sounds pretty groovy, but I really want to sleep and I’ve already got noise. I don’t want some kind of Battle of the Bands thing going on.
When I didn’t answer, Esteban continued, “You know, I’ve been outside and it’s not all that loud. It IS only 7:30 p.m., you know.”
God damn Esteban and his logic. I sat down, wrote an email to trinity63 that barely made sense and now she might just think I’m a stoner. And I wouldn’t blame her. But her baby is cute, that wasn’t the drugs talking.
Then I stumbled back into the bedroom and shut the bedroom windows and fell back into bed. At 8:30, Esteban woke me up to make sure that I had not drowned in a pool of my own drool. That’s the bad part of having a stuffed nose, you must sleep with your mouth open. And of course, my mouth now feels as though someone has installed wall-to-wall shag carpeting. Which I hear is coming back in style and I’m not quite understanding this. And that’s not the drugs talking either.
I woke up this morning, feeling as though my head were a circus balloon and a clown was about to shape it into a poodle, so I called in to work sick and went back to bed. Then at 7:15 A.M. this morning, BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ . A chainsaw of some kind. I ended up having a dream that the crazy DJ from three houses down was now putting all the party goers into a chipper shredder. And I was applauding him.
So basically the neighborhood was trying its best to make sure that I did not sleep wonderful restful curative sleep of the gods.
And you know what? With enough cough syrup, you can sleep through anything they throw at you.
BRING IT ON!!! (Weetabix laughs at all who should defy her, waving a bottle of cherry flavored store-brand Ny-quil at them! Bwah ha ha ha!!!)
Oh, and another one of my dreams last night was that I had SIX diaries to update, all with different sets of pseudonyms to prevent Esteban’s friends from finding them. And I was having a hard time keeping all the different pseudonyms straight.
Scott read all 64 entries of this diary last night in the wee hours. And signed the guestbook. See? Doesn’t Scott rock? And he put in a plea to save Joel’s life. Ok, readers, you may stop making fun of Joel willy nilly. I will honor Scott’s request, as he bravely heckled a DJ on Saturday night to save my honor.
And if anyone needs a damp mass of used tissues, let me know. I’m your girl. I’ve got white ones, light blue ones and pink ones. It’s a damp pastel wonderland at the Weetabix household.
