Like a rock. A snoring rock.

And that rock is my boyfriend.


I spent most of the evening cleaning the bedroom - sweeping, throwing crap out, organizing the large closet, dusting, wiping stuff off, and singing along to Chicago as it played on the little 13" tv we have on the dresser. I have been really, really looking forward to sleeping in a reduced dust environment, especially after a long, hot day and hours spent making a billion potstickers (from scratch).

My boyfriend has a tendency to go to bed before I do - which is fine. I tucked him in (ain't that cute ;-)?), and went back to the living room to finish watching The Soup on E!, followed by a rousing episode of Saturday Night Live, starring Steve Carrell. Sometime in the middle of my late night television coma, I hear him open a door, stumble out of the bedroom, grunt, go into the bathroom, close the door, open the door, go back to the bedroom and close the door. This didn't exactly raise any alarms with me - zombie boyfriend is fairly typical around 1 o'clock in the morning. Saturday Night ends and I head to the bathroom; brush my teeth, wash my face, wipe off the counter. Then I wandered into the kitchen, made sure the oven was off, turned off the light. I grabbed a slice of cucumber, for my guinea pig, dropped it off in her cage, then walked to the bedroom to tuck in.

I tried to turn the knob.


I try it again, in case I'm channeling my inner blonde and...


I panic slightly and knock.

I knock again. And again. I get a bit frantic and start to pound and suddenly I am incredibly aware of both the bony part of the knuckle of my middle finger and the surprisingly loud sound the hollow door makes. I stop, reflecting on the fact that the neighbors are probably wishing ill upon me and mine.

Just in case, I try the knob again.

No dice. The frantic feeling turns to rage as I realize that I'm not going to get into my cozy, cool, soft, fancy, fabulous, awesome, loverly bed in my super clean bedroom. I start pounding on the door, wailing on it with both fists, trying out different rhythms as I attempt to shake and pound it out of its frame. "Hey? Hey! HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY!!!!! F#@K."

So here I am, typing on my laptop, in the living room, trying to figure out how to sleep on either the tiny rug or the wood frame, uncomfortable love seat we purchased from IKEA.

I am not happy.

Just imagine if someone broke in one night and I needed to rouse him from sleep to save me from a bad guy ninja - but instead my knight in fuzzy boxers snores through the entire ordeal. Or if there were, heaven forbid, a fire. What if I have an allergic reaction to my guinea pig, puff up like a blowfish and go into anaphylactic shock? Or, just humor me here, what if I WANT TO SLEEP IN MY OWN F@$KING BED.?!?!?! WHAT THEN, HUH?????!!??!!!


*Additional note: The worst thing is the fact that I literally just moved the air mattress from the hallway closet (re: accessible), into the bedroom closet (re: inaccessible) this very evening.

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