So, you know, I woke up this morning, and my brain was empty. My well of blog fodder hath runneth dry. I had absolutely nothing to blog about. Nada. Hi, people, I don't have anything interesting to tell you.
And then I stopped home on my lunch break and got high.
No, no, silly blog readers. I did not literally get high of my own free will. Hi, do you KNOW me? Hugs not drugs. However, the folks across the hall weren't doing a lot of hugging this noon hour. And had I hung out in the hallway long enough, I could've returned to work, taken a drug test and failed.
The first time I saw marijuana, I was a freshman in college. I was at a house party. The under-agers (Hi, me) were drinking. And this is beginning to sound like an after school special... Anyway, so there was a guy, at a table, with a little baggy and white papers and a lighter and, what is that? Oregano? Oh, silly, innocent, 18-year-old who may or may not have gotten drunk and may or may not have made out with a girl friend that night, Krista. Of course it's not oregano. And that's when I realized, GASP IN HORROR, it was, GASP AGAIN IN HORROR, marijuana. Weed. The first time I realized real, live people like you and me, and not gang-bangers on the street, partake in smoking of weed. I was never the same. But I was still drunk.
So today, while every part of me wanted to scream, NO! BAD neighbors! Weed is BAD, like the Weed Police that I am, I cut them some slack. Besides, they do a REALLY good job of covering up the odor with patchouli.
Moving on. So I walked into my apartment to find The Cats particularly startled. Yes, hi, felines, I do live here from time to time. And occasionally I come home. But then I realized what was startling them: a CLARINET. Because, apparently, people still own and play the clarinet at the noon-ish hour on a Friday. And they play and play their little hearts out, mimicking what sounded shockingly similar to the death of a three-legged donkey, had I ever heard such a thing. Which, I haven't. By the way.
I don't know WHERE said clarinet sounds were coming from, until I look up, and realize, OH MY GOD, not only do my upstairs neighbors have raunchy, dirty, fat, loud sex, they've also taken up clarinet lessons in their spare time, which, believe me, is not often. They have a lot of raunchy, dirty, fat, loud sex.
It had to have been Pat. I don't know if Pat is actually Pat's name, but that's what we've named her. Pat belongs, I assume, to Bill. And I KNOW Bill's name because, well, Pat screams it every other breath during aforementioned fat sex. And dirty, raunchy, etc. Something along the lines of, "Oh Bill," "Bad, bad boy," "OHH William," and for added effect, "Oh Bill, OH WILLIAM, you're SO naughty." And a few spanks in between. And squeals.
So, now, before you get all hot and bothered and ask to be my roommate, uh, NO. A) because I don't WANT a roommate, and B) because, have you SEEN Bill and Pat? I'm going to go ahead and go with NO. Bill, he looks like a 138-pound skinhead. And Pat? She's got about 40 pounds on Bill and badly dyed red hair. And she wears mom jeans. And really, people, if you're voyeuristic and want nothing more than to listen to people in the throes of passion, NO. You don't want the mental image of these two. Trust me.
And now? Now Pat plays the clarinet. And it scares The Cats. And, seriously, next time you witness the death of a three-legged donkey, think of me. Or Pat. Or, OHH BILL. I guarantee you will shudder. And sympathize. But whatever you do, don't light up a joint.
BAD. All around.