I decided to go to bed early this evening, even ignoring the People's Choice Awards (the lamest of the award season). I'm exhausted, my head hurts, and I'm feeling downright lousy.
The boy does not know this.
Tonight is a Tuesday night. It is not a night that should involve the blaring of music. Nor should it involve four of his buddies singing along with that blaring music. Nor should it involve his playing the guitar while the buddies sing along to the blaring music.
I threw a pillow at the wall. Hard. It must not have sounded very threatening. His party continues.
I live next door to a bar. So does he. He should sing along with the blaring music there. Maybe the old Greek men will even buy him a drink.
And I should sleep. I can't even read. The singing on the other side of the wall is so bad, I can't remember the previous paragraph.
Wait. A moment of silence. Maybe he got my pillow message after all...
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