Well, I got back to my place, settled in on the couch with netflix and a wonderful documentary about the War of 1812, because I'm REALLY 83 years old, and that's what I do for fun. I look for a quiet place and watch History Channel documentaries.
Very clever.
Anyways, after a few minutes of watching the Redcoats advance upon Washington, I heard commotion from upstairs on the landing. It appeared there was a fight between some guy and some girl, and they were not too pleased with one-another. I decided to be respectful of the situation, so I did what any gentleman would do...I pressed my ear to the door and listened to it all. Somebody cheated on somebody...big mess...
Guess how much I care?
I won, because I used their sadness as entertainment.
They eventually left, and I returned, once again, to the British advance upon our capital.
About 20 minutes later, I heard what I thought was crying from upstairs, so I went to explore the situation. I thought perhaps I could add more excitement to my night at the expense of others. Earlier in the day, my friend moved out of the apartment above me, and a new girl moved in. It should be noted that today was the last day of finals, due to our goofy system, so the whole building is empty...except for me and this girl...and whoever is plowing the hell out of her right now.
Yes, readers, I have spent the last hour and a half unable to sleep, because I am being subjected to what might be the loudest sex Erie has ever known.
I thought perhaps it would end shortly after it began, but it simply continued escalating at a more rapid pace than the German invasion of the Sudetenland. As the minutes ticked away, so did my patience, and after 15 minutes or so of listening to the vaginal slaughter that was taking place mere feet above my head, I went to my room and turned on my guitar. I played through most of Metallica's "Ride The Lightning" and "Kill 'em All" albums, but to no avail: the walls above me were still receiving worse treatment than Native Americans during the Jackson administration.
How is it possible that you have so little dignity as to have sex louder than a Deep Purple concert, then actually have somebody PLAY Deep Purple below you on their guitar (I played "My Woman From Tokyo", as well) and NOT STOP SLAMMING OFF THE WALLS LIKE CHARLES MANSON IN THE NUTHOUSE?
Captain Jackhammer and NewGirl are still at it upstairs, and any minute now, I expect them to come crashing through the ceiling, not notice their new location (which would be my kitchen), and keep going. Either that, or I'll be rushing them both to the hospital after he liquefies her insides, and he then suffers a heart attack.
So here, I present my final request to the Sexual marathon runners, currently on the 25th mile of their jaunt through my potential sleeping time:
