Sunday, January 25, 2015

Snoring and contemplating why shit stinks

So today I feel really, really rotten. Was up all nite with a backache so bad I was nearly crying. My fucking box spring is neither box nor spring but instead some sort of Medieval torture device constructed by Satan himself. It's made out of what feels like 1x4' for every disc in my back I'd swear to it. My mattress might as well not be there for all the damn good it does. A bed of nails ain't got Jack shit on this one. So I tossed and turned all nite long. About one I turned my head to the foot hoping for some relief (but wouldn't you know it that end is made of the same stuff). In the process of doing so I woke the snoring dragon beside me who quipped up with, "Ain't this side good enough for you?" That very nearly earned him a knee square in the cods. I was soooooo tempted. Knee was in perfect position to pass it off as a withdrawal related spasm. Then of course he dropped right back off to dreamland with no pain to contend with and no withdrawals from addiction to contend with. Nope...he was happier than a pig in shit and fell immediately to snoring again. I spent the next two hours gleefully contemplating smothering him with my fucking pillow. It helped my back...or my head. Anyway he lived to be an ass another day. I cant vouch that he will make it through another nite if he starts snoring again and wakes me up or keeps me awake. I hate snoring if it's being done in my bed and I'm not the one doing it. And yes I'm fully aware that I snore too. But goddammit my snoring don't keep me the fuck awake whereas YOURS does. I often wonder how many people met their end when their insomniac, in pain, and rightfully enraged partner couldn't take it anymore and just smothered the shit out of them in their sleep? I'd bet a bunch. I'd bet even more wound up with mysterious broken ribs from a well placed sharp jab. Those jabs came from the school of "Couldn't go through with the act of smothering my partner." I don't know what school I'm from. I'll let you know tomorrow. I got up at three because laying there was just making me hurt worse and thereby increasing my ever present rage factor. I made coffee and sat and read my absolute most favorite book on earth "The Poisionwood Bible" by Barbara Kingsolver. If you haven't read it you must do so at once. It's about a Baptist Missionary family from Bethlehem Georgia, led by their crazy mean father, who find themselves plunked down smack in the Congo in 1960. They are of course tasked with "educating the heathen Tribes of Ham in the way that Jesus would have them go." Who do you think gets educated? The book is a scream from almost page one. Always makes me laugh...even when I feel my worst. You'll love it. About seven I cooked breakfast for everyone and served my patient. About 7:30 Mr. Good Nights Sleep comes sauntering in like the world was his oyster...yawning and stretching and scratching and just generally rubbing my nose in it. You know how people who slept well do. He was lucky I'd already put the butcher knife down. I decided I might ought to try stretching out for a minute before someone,and I'm not saying who, got hurt. So in the interest of the safety of all who live here that's what I did. And I magically managed to get comfortable enough to doze off. I had just reached that drifty, dreamy, floaty stage where actual sleep is on the descent...where you can taste it. Yea, you exactly what I'm talking about. And guess what happened? My boyfriend shakes me awake and tells me the patient has to shit. OH. MY. GOD. ANYTHING. BUT. THAT! To be woken up with those dreaded words was nearly more than I could take. I woulda rather have been told the fucking house was on fire. At least then I wouldn't have been assaulted by the smell of someone else's shit. But sadly the house wasn't on fire and the stink of shit was on the menu of never-ending delights in store for Me today and there was nothing to do but get up, snap on the gloves, grab the God cursed "bullets" and get to inserting. So that's what I did. I once again for about the billionth time wished for a biohazard suit complete with its own closed source oxygen supply. I hate the smell of shit in general, who doesn't? But why is it the smell of someone else's shit is so much more overpowering and vomit inducing than your own shit? Just why is that? Anyway, that's been my day thus far. And it's still real early. Ain't life grand

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