Sleep is precious

Ok, now this time she went too far.

I was in The Habitat on Sunday night and went to bed. The Flatmate was not in evidence. Good, I thought, probably get to sleep without having to put up with the incessant sounds of her midnight ablutions. Why, for chrissake, at the conclusion of this ritual does one need to bang one's toothbrush against the sink 10 times? It is beyond me. Perhaps its not a toothrush at all. Perhaps its the spoon she uses to load cocaine into her own arsehole, to avoid damage to that perfect septum in that pretty little nose in the middle of that lovely face on the front of her completely empty skull.

I digress. There I was, sleeping. My phone rings. Jesus! I thought. An emergency! It is 3am! Then I see the caller... The Flatmate.

Me: "Hello?"

Flatmate: "Itsh me." Drunk. Of course.

Me: "What the fuck do you want? It's 3 in the fucking morning!"

Flatmate: "I know. Can' oppun door... Fuggen stuck. Come down let me in."

Oh.

My.

God.

Today's reason I hate my Flatmate: She gets too trashed to open a door at 3 am and rings me to come down stairs to open it for her on the day I must travel across the fucking country to get to work by 9am.