The numbers laugh at me as I see hours of my beautiful slumber run away from me. Well whatever, screw you time! You were a shitty lay anyways…
Sigh. I'm sorry…Time…baby can we just reconcile? Obviously I was being an insensitive jerk and I promise to be more considerate about the demands of your position IE not bitch about you being too fast or too slow. I just need you to turn back the clock 2 more hours so I can get a full 8 hours of sleep, and not be Hitler's reincarnate tomorrow during my volunteer hours at the hospital. Please don't let the children suffer because of our marital problems! I hesitantly look at the clock and let out an indignant shriek. 2:20am. First off I'm trying to be mother freaking Teresa and make sick children smile, and you wont even provide me with beauty sleep! I need that extra boost! Without it I make Scarface look like Heidi freaking Klum (She's not even that pretty anyways, there is nothing attractive about plastic). And second of all how dare you suggest that I internal monologue for so long?! 20min is much to long for me to incessantly babble!
Counting sheep is complete crap. No one ever tell you how to count them, they just give you this vague off handed remark and pat your head. I am not a dog! And my brain cells are much more developed! But I digress. Back to counting sheep, it's so unstructured and ridiculous. It gives my imagination no instructions. Should the sheep prance by in a meadow or calmly cross the road? Should they be wearing clothes? Are they gender neutral? Is it raining? What ultimately happens to the sheep after they are counted? I'm not a vegetarian but killing all those sheep just so people could sleep is inhumane and all round not very nice.
I decided to be a hippy and let all my sheep run off into the sunset. Crickets. Fine I lost count, but you would too if your sheep were driving Harleys and wreaking havoc destroying Charlotte's web and making poor Babe cry! I sniffle into my pillow. The decline in the manners of the future sheep generation is quite morbid. I punch my pillow in despair, and in the process of bitterly lamenting becoming a senile old bat with hipster fucks running our government; I knock a scrap of paper from underneath. I pick it up and immediately start blushing. "Dear Bathroom Girl, I get it". Urinal symphony the reprise blares through the night, and I boogie down with my bad self as Elvis and the doves' croon my romantic success! After the doves' flutter back to help Noah park the Arc and Elvis climbs back into his piano, I tenderly stroke the scrap of faded paper. Why was I hiding it under my pillow next to a pile of floss and trident chewing gum you ask? Well I wish I could lie and say that I put the floss and gum in hopes to tickle the Tooth Fairies fancy and in return have her pass the message along to Cupid, so he could make sure that all the mushy mojo wasn't screwed up. But waits that why I…never mind. Anyways I carefully tuck the note back under the pillow and pick up my cancer brick and stare at my text message drafts.
To: Bathroom Boy
I shudder at my boldness. I know this is the 21st century and I should be burning my bra for women's liberation, but I like my boobs not bouncing like a bobble head thanks! Just throw me back into a 16th century corset and let my father barter over my hand in marriage with chickens and goats (no sheep, to unreliable). Oh who am I fooling? This has nothing to do with me renouncing my vagina's right too be hairy. I'm just chicken shit. I mean for God sakes he met me in the boy's bathroom! What kind of potential girlfriend material scream's "I don't have a penis" unless it's a charity case that you bring up at posh parties. 'No, it's not real love. I just thought that crazy people needed love to' insert philanthropical golf claps. Well us crazy people have feelings too! We won't be used for your public image. Which leads me to me next reason. I am insane. Not clinically diagnosed insane, but I am far from normal. And people of his normal caliber will take one look at my crazy caliber and jump on his white horse and take of running…galloping…anyways. My point is-
"Stop being a wimp and send the text"
I freeze, and wildly look around. Who dares disturb my slumber!
"You are not a fucking sand monster, and I am not Aladdin. Send the damn text message and go to sleep"
I sputter indignantly! I am indignant. How dare you
"Maybe if you didn't mutter so loudly, I wouldn't know about your secret pains. Now shut up PLEASE"
I forgot how rude roommates could be when deprived of sleep. Exhibit A: Jessie Scheie. Precisely 5ft and something inches, with creamy peach skin usually not glowing red and lovely green eyes that are usually much more pleasant than the grenades that are blowing up behind those thick lashes. Her light brown wavy tresses look like Sweeny Todd had a rainbow moment and resemble a blind birds nest due to her constant tossing and turning. Remembering Jessie's 9am lab, I immediately feel the guilt knock the indignant out of me and sulk into my covers.
Well that's just rude. How can she just ignore my sufferings? Does she not realize that I will die a miserable lonely cat lady with 50 cats! Which is disturbing, because are vicious creature whom make me fear for my mortal existence! I need support! I need someone to rally for my right to love! I need- Eeek!
Suddenly my cell phone is ripped out of my hands, and I hear the betraying sound of my phone notifying me that my text message was sent. I look at Jessie in horror wondering faintly if the apocalypse is approaching, and if I was prepared to sacrifice my body to repopulate the earth.
"Consider your right to love rallied for. Now for the love of all that is good in this world shut up, or so help me I will Avada Kedavra your ass"
As Jessie threw the covers over her head, muttering wizard threats it dawned on me why I always got away with watching Harry Potter 24/7 without her normal tongue lashing for wasting my youth on commercialized crap. I snick to myself, plotting ways of slowly introducing the power of the ring, and the sexiness of my favorite Elf, when a beep causes my nefarious schemes to freeze. I hesitantly pick up my phone off the battered night stand, praying that my phone is screaming to be fed with electricity. There is no way that he would have texted me back. It's 4am! He should be snuggled up with all his manly muscles, dreaming about ways to help the elderly or how to save the whales! Or you know sex, booze, and boobs. What, I'm a realist! If I steal my neighbors porn, I'm sure he is more than capable of subscribing to multiple porn magazines! My phone beeps angrily, snapping me out of my reverie.
I wonder if opening it is necessarily the wisest choice. I can feel everything changing around me as the world holds its breath to see if, I Cassidy Porter, will abandon my chicken suit and embrace my independent woman hiding within?
I fling open my phone, and scan the screen with sniveling hope.
From: Bathroom Boy
Well things just got interesting