I love sleep. I love curling into a ball, wrapped in a sheet, a down comforter, arms around a pillow, head on two pillows, cat at my feet, 8-year-old, noseless teddy bear near my head. I like it. I need it. Sleep is good. In fact, if given the opportunity, I would sleep past 6 a.m. on a weekend.
Yes. I said 6 a.m. PAST 6 a.m. Because, apparently, where my apartment comes from, sleeping any later is an act of terrorism.
Ohhh, where do I begin? Oh, I know. The part where I'm sleeping soundly. Zzzzz... zzz... zz... z... Look at me sleeping. Sleepy, sleep-sleep. And then it begins.
First, it's the cat. Harley, not Chicken. Because Harley is Satan. Because Harley doesn't sleep. Ever. Until everyone in the apartment is already rudely awakened and looking to kill someone. Like her, for instance. Once we're awake, she's curled in an oh-so-precious ball, in the corner, smirking in her dreams, quite pleased with her accomplishment. Devil.
So Harley is running back and forth and back and forth between the whole two windows in my entire apartment. Birds! Oh, fun! More birds! Sunshine! Birds! A tree! A car! A noise! Birds! I'm annoying! Somebody beat me! So, she's darting willy-nilly across the apartment, tearing through the (closed) blinds each time she jumps into the window. And then... Oh! A breeze! Let me chase it across the apartment, down the hall, slide into the rug and hit the wall! Whee!
So that's 6 a.m. Finally I learn to zone out Cat Who's Gone Mentally Disabled and doze back to sleep until Man With Tattoos decides to start his diesel truck right outside my window, which is wide open, with at least one Mentally Disabled Cat in it. So he starts it. It's loud. He drives away. He comes back. He hooks up his boat. He starts truck up again. He sits in parking lot, diesel engine roaring in window with Wicked Cat Gone Wild. And then he leaves. Thank God.
And I doze back to sleep. Between birds chirping, sun rising, cars racing, police chasing, horns honking, cat dilly-dallying... Can anyone get any SLEEP AROUND HERE?? Apparently not.
By now it's about, oh, I don't know, WAY TOO EARLY, and the Garbage Man comes. Note to self: why do I live in the apartment on the first floor, in the corner, by the back door, the dumpsters, the Man With Tattoo's truck and some crazy, loud, flu-spreading birds? Why? I don't know. So Garbage Man's truck beep-beep-beeps four inches from my window, which is four inches from my head, and OH, Idiot Cat is still running amok. The garbage is dumped, loudly. Breaking glass, chomping truck, tumbled dumpsters, all within, at least, eight inches of my head.
I hate The World.
And then there's peace. And quiet. And I love it. And then it's time to wake up because, OH MY GOD, I have to work all damn day. And night. And now I really hate life.
And suddenly, there's Harley, curled in a ball on a shelf. Sleeping. Bitch.