I may be on the news tonight for murdering my neighbours.
Who the hell has a loud drunken karaoke party till the wee hours in the middle of the week?
I mean, it’s bad enough I had to listen to your shitty taste in music, evil neighbours, but none of you can sing. I sing better than that and I’m tone deaf. Right now I feel like Trent Reznor when he’s pulling his angry-at-the-whole-world-and-everyone-must-die face
Also, my child agrees, seeing as how she spent the whole night unable to sleep and screaming in obvious pain at the torture inflicted on her sensitive little ears. I’ll be sending my hitman around and he’ll be taking out your whole family and your yappy dog too. And then I’m going to burn your karaoke machine in the street while chanting to all the demonic forces that Hell can spare.
Need to get into writing space now, despite the fact that my head feels like it’s on backwards.
Actually, I got lots of thoughts and images coming to me last night regarding hob an lam, so I think I have some work to do now, if I can just bring myself to open the document without crying. (Yes, I have this internal struggle every morning, where I ask myself why I keep on keeping on despite the evidence that I really should just go and get some crappy job somewhere on minimum wage. Some days my sheer lack of shit-giving is the only thing that gets me to put the next word down.)
Luckily I dug up this essay because of something