There is a certain pain I feel, or more accurately pressure I feel when someone talks to me when I’m tired. It’s as if the very tone of their voice is tinnitus for my ears and their every word is grating. The most beautiful sweet nothings could be whispered in my ear when I’m tired and I’d hear them as the cacophony of ten thousand car horns.
Often to avoid issue, I retire to bed with a book in the strong hope that I’m left alone and I let my brain soak up with words and wonder until the call of the open trails of my imagination become too strong to ignore and I put the book down and drift to sleep.
Now that would be the perfect way, but I swear to motherfucking god that without fail, since my god damn childhood, people think this is the perfect time to try to ask me about shit.
Now these fuckers don’t ask me as I’m getting ready for bed, or before I get in bed. They don’t even ask me as I’m getting my book out. No. These cocksuckers wait ‘till I’m a few pages in, settling into the story, then they’re fucking Jeopardy as a guest star on fucking Wheel of Fortune. And without fail, whatever they ask me is something that is not at all urgent and can easily wait until morning.
It drives me damn crazy.
I’ve been on work trips and coworkers will knock at the door, I’ve been a kid and parents come in. It’s like goddamn Pavlov trained everyone I know to bother the fuck out of me exactly when I’m perfectly not in the mood to handle their shit.
Now if I’m a guest in someone’s house they have free license and unquestioned questioning rights no matter the time. They can wake me up at 345 to ask me if I like ketchup. If I’m a guest, I am the very definition of deferential. If I, however, am in my house or my room or in a hotel room that has been rented to me, it’s not cool.
I, in my saltiest of moments, wonder what these people are thinking. Why on god’s green fucking earth would these half-wits think this would be a good time to try to interrogate someone? I never give a good answer anyway, or at least I get that feeling as they tend to ask multiple follow up questions.
Then, the gall of these assholes, they finally let me be and I return to my book and begin to let my mind wander- and guess who fucking returns with more bullshit questions. These motherfuckers. Sometimes this cycle repeats itself far more times than logic, manners, or even absurdity would allow.
God damn people with their goddamn questions and times I find to be god damn inappropriate.
Every time I face this I fall asleep muttering about how I’m going to move to an island and not let anyone else join me, and there- perhaps only there, I will be able to relax god damn it.