Gone to the Mattresses

My doorbell buzzed at 4:25 this morning. Since I was deep in the arms of Morpheus after one of the best massages of my life, it took me a while to realize it was buzzing...amazing because it's only six feet from my head.

And buzzing.

And buzzing.

For fear it was someone I loved, I answered it. The response?

Unintelligible. Drunky McDrunkersons pushing only my button.

After the best massage of my life.

I said goodbye, informing them, "If you don't leave immediately, I will call the police."

I also said goodbye to sleep. I went into lockdown. I locked and relocked both entrances. Checked all the windows. Closed the few curtains I have. Checked under the bed. Checked in the bathroom and closets.

No one there.

Ridiculous, I know. However, I have been the ____________ (I hate the V word so find another, please) of burglary, robbery, assault and sexual assault here in the city.

And a good old-fashioned mugging in New Haven.

Lah de dah.

Sometimes I wonder why those things happened...especially at moments like this when I've gone to the mattresses and streamed 30 ROCK on Netflix 'til the sun came up and I felt safe.

And the only answer I can come up with is I live a lot of life...not haphazardly or dangerously (unless you count the TaB)...just TONS OF LIFE. (Funny. I typoed "life" with the word "love.")

And there's bound to be some shit where there's that much life.

And where there's that much shit, there must be a pony, right?

I'm counting on the pony.*

*And if the pony's with the mattress? Call me Catherine the Great.