After my wretched morning sobbing fit, I got back to bed, and back to sleep (although in continued fits of searing heartache no less. Blasted heart...).
But not an hour after I was asleep (we must assume it was an hour, I was asleep and unable to gauge time, especially since I had a night which honestly lasted two weeks. Just the last couple hours of sleep which I am about to relate were at least a week and a half long. I don't understand how I woke up and only a night had passed. My bed is now officially deemed a rip in the time/space continuum where time drags on inexorably. I don't want to get into it tonight and get sucked into that again) my two youngest sisters were out of bed on the computer. And yelling. And screaming. And running.
Probably chair dancing again too. I think I've decided that they are actually little savages from a remote island country where the custom is to wake up at ungodly hours and perform bizarre rituals to call up good luck or rain or death for their evil older sisters who actually request them to be decent, quiet, well behaved children in the morning, by performing very violent dances around office chairs accompanied by lots of visceral screaming.
They were probably delivered to us from their remote island country (which has probably been destroyed by a natural catastrophe on the scale of national fashion tragedies like all the men wearing short shorts with dress socks pulled up to their thigh and tasseled penny loafers or something of similar evil like tartan plaid curtains) by the blasted United States Postal Service too. I hate the USPS. Or more specifically, the local branch of it. I�m going to go burn down the post office. Especially since it accepted those two little savages. But I bet the USPS was in league with that country. Just look at their uniforms (shorts, socks generally pulled up to their thigh, shoes which aren't a whit better than penny loafers...this is no accident...).
So anyway, they are carrying on with utterly no regard for their sleeping sister. I ended up dreaming about them. (And this is the second time this month I�ve dreamt of them because they were being so loud that they penetrated into my subconscious.)
Yes, oh torture. Because in my dream, I had just barely arisen from bed, and was in all of my slovenly glory with my pajama pants sliding off my ass, my bra gaping out from under my ill fitting pajama shirt, my hair flying in every which direction and my face a gaping, pale, tired mess. Ahhh...I should have had a glorious nightmare where I was the monster chasing them. I am sure I looked more than scary enough to fit the part.
Well so I towered up out of bed with the intention of scolding and yelling at them, to find their little friend trying some really ugly striped Barbie wallpaper against my wall and asking me what it was for. She turned and looked at me, her eyebrows shot up, and she began to make fun of me.
A five year old. Making fun of me. Yep. It was a nightmare, but I wasn't the monster.
I didn't want to have dreams about being a slovenly monster being taunted by a five year old. It�s along the same veins as the old �I went to school/work/the mall/the grocery store/the orthodontist/a poetry reading naked/in my underwear/in a pair of high waters yanked up to my chest� dreams. Right. Icky icky.
I finally really woke up, not half the unkempt mess that I was in my dream, and the girls had quieted down.
They were done with their ridiculously loud rituals by that time. It was actually a decent hour. 9:45am. So of course they had to be quiet. They can�t possibly be loud at hours when no one minds. Where�s the fun in that? Angels by day, demons by night.
Something really needs to be done to stop them. Like�well�
If you hear of me going to prison for maliciously administering illegal substances to minors, write letters to me.
(Only kidding!!!)
I pretended to be happy for two hours while I composed that. That's more than long enough for one day.