A.B. says that people who write blogs, forced or not, should tell stories from their lives to entertain the people of the internet. The problem I’ve always had with this is, one, who, really, wants to hear my real life stories? They’re rarely anything super interesting when the whole world of fiction is out there to see. And, two, I don’t alway believe they’re true. Embellishment is too easy. Mostly, I believe that stories on the internet are creative nonfiction.
So, here’s mine.
I’ve been running off about three hours of sleep today. Normally, I’d blame being a student on this, though I’m usually good at going to bed at a sensible time. Last night, I couldn’t sleep too well and, as it got to about midnight, one of my housemates came home. Drunk. With her boyfriend. As I feared, their drunken chatter soon turned into a loud argument that I did my best to tune out since today was my longest day, with a 9am start. So, it got to about one and I was half asleep, waking up a little whenever they were being extra loud in the room next to mine. Then things get bad.
Imagine being so close to sleep that your brain is completely fogged and you’re comfortable and warm, then you hear terrifyingly loud banging from the room next door. That’s what I woke up to. I bolted up in my bed and listened. More banging. Then my housemate started screaming for help. I’m actually almost proud of the fact that, as this happened, I jumped out of bed and ran for the door. Not sure exactly what I thought I could do if she was being attacked by her giant of a boyfriend, but I was going to do something. I ran around to her room and opened the door, then attempted to pull the boyfriend away from her. Didn’t do much except get told to ‘f**k off’ by him, but I tried. Anyway, he was then kicked out and A.B. and our other housemate emerged to see what the hell was going on and why everyone was screaming. We managed to calm down our shaken housemate and ourselves. Talking later to A.B and my other housemate (who has just told me to call her Lee, as that’s easier) they told me they were less worried about the one who had been attacked and more concerned about the fact I was standing with them unable to stop myself from shaking. My knees were shaking the most. It was weird. They also said that if the boyfriend had hurt me when I went to try save our housemate, he would have been leaving the house on a stretcher. It made me feel terribly loved.
Anyway, as weird as all that was, it got stranger. The housemate called the boyfriend’s ex, who’s pregnant with his baby, and started talking about him, laughing, while the boyfriend was whimpering on the other side of our front door. Then, she let him back into the house to argue with him some more before they retreated back to her bedroom to argue even more than that. We were not overly impressed, considering we were waiting up to find out what was going on in the downstairs bedroom and no one stopped in to tell us anything.
It was about four in the morning before we got to bed. The same bed. Since upstairs was still a mass of shouting, we camped in the downstairs bedroom for the remainder of the night. We are all extremely tired and, for some reason, the boyfriend is still in the house.
I’m so exhausted, people of the internet, and I don’t know what to do. I can’t focus on anything. Not reading. Not writing. Music is helping a little, as is this, I must confess, and I know A.B. will crow about that when we’re all a little better. This just feels like I’ve fictionalised what happened. Like it wasn’t real. So, now, I can finally relax. My everything hurts.
Goodnight, Internet people.