(pixels.com by Enrico Hanel)


It’s been a year.

The toilet won’t stop running. What is it with toilets? Why do they have to plink, plink, plink throughout the night, waking me up every couple of hours into a semi-delusion, confused state of ‘Is it time to get up now? No, it’s just that f*cking toilet.’ 

I wake myself into a zombie state, like moderate sedation without the amnesia, and jiggle the handle, buying myself another hour of sleep before it starts up again. This usually works, except at 3 am today when the Texas Toilet Water Torture triggered some existential angst to the degree that I needed to completely wake up, flush the toilet, hold the handle down until the bowl filled up, then trudge back to bed. At that point, I was bleary-eyed but awake. With a cold.

Sniffle, sniffle. 

Unfortunately, the angst invaded my dream of being unable to find my socks, then couldn’t put my socks on. I finally got socks on, but too hot, and I couldn’t take off my socks. Ugh. 

The alarm went off in a few hours, in the middle of dreaming that I had fallen out of bed. I woke up face down on the carpet. It’s not a great carpet—not quite 70s shag but just as creepy. I spat out a mouthful of fuzz.

And the cherry on top, the postman dropped off the “Poop in A Box” container on the front steps where all my neighbors can see…

My head aches. 

My nose is sniffly, and my throat told my vocal cords to take a hike.

My eye twitches.

My life is complete.

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