now are you sure you want a piece of me?

Question: What's worse than Mondays?

Answer: Tuesdays.

I have been at work for three hours and I feel like it's been closer to ten. I'm exhausted, partly because I couldn't shut off last night but more accurately because the homosexual couple down the hall from me decided that Monday night at eleven o'clock would be the perfect time to host a soiree. I've seen this elusive couple only a handful of times in the year I've lived at the apartments, but each time, judging by the hotpants and glitter, I could tell the score immediately. Watching the sexier of the pair (and I say this only because they have to be ranked somehow) shimmy up the stairs and exclaim with glee over the strawberry buttons on my dog's collar, I shouldn't have been so foolish as to think that some night soon, the Cure WOULDN'T be blaring out of their open windows at 1AM. The rayon blend shirt practically demanded it.

So, last night as I was walking Laura down the stairs, I can't say I was completely surprised to hear Rihanna "breakin' dishes" at top volume because her man had done her wrong. And as I scuttled past their open front door (I didn't want to linger in case it seemed like I was being nosy) I heard a high pitched voice ask if everyone had seen that little dog. To which, oohs and ahs followed. I had half a mind to parade Sheba back in front of the door, because after all, attention is attention. But two hours later when I was finally ready to go to sleep, and I could actually FEEL their music in my bed, I just wanted to go over there and strangle them all with their pom pom scarves. But of course, to beat them at their own game, I'd do it singing Britney-style "you want a piece of me?" I love me some gay men, but you mess with my REM cycle, you're just asking for a bitch slap.