It is now exactly 12:05 a.m. here in good ol' Germany. While the rest of my friends back in the states are ending their work day, I have patiently been awaiting the moment when I could crawl into my somewhat comfortable bed, turn the heat up just a tad and snuggle in for what I was hoping would be a sleep-filled night with dreams of money and wealth and fame and beautiful people.
Right.
I should clarify I've BEEN in bed since 11:00.
Why, Sarah, have you not fallen asleep yet?
Oh, please, let me tell you. Because I live in an effing dorm. A dorm filled with youngsters officially on their own and not under the watchful eye of their respective parental figures. A dorm filled with immature, drunk fuck-wads. Who think that it is totally fine to be outside of the building, drinking and swearing and screaming and doing God only knows what else, with little mind nor consideration for other people. Oh, by the way, I live on the 8th floor of my building. These douches are that fucking loud.
*sigh*
It's like I'm back at Humboldt State. I would say U of I, but due to the strict rules and regulations I lived under in the sorority, I just don't think it is an accurate comparison. No, I'm talking full on dorm living. You know, filled with people of varying ages from varying backgrounds all trying to coexist in the same living space. And not doing so successfully. Did you ever see the movie "Election" with Reese Witherspoon? That scene where she is at Georgetown and super, super excited to finally be amongst her intellectual counterparts in an environment conducive to success and high achievement? Only to find out that dorm life is not what she was expecting because young people freak the fuck out when they are on their own for the first time? Oh, and we all remember when she storms out in the hallway, her hair in curlers, screeching for the immature adolescents to pipe down. I feel like her. Right now. I want to stick my head out the window like some 70-year-old grandma and yell at these bastards below me to get into bed, they have school tomorrow. But no, no. I cannot.
When did I become THAT person?
Maybe when I turned old enough to legally drink in the states? No, no that wasn't it. 25? Maybe it was 25? When the stinging reality of adult life hit me like a sack of bricks? When paying bills and going to work and *gasp* taking responsibility for my own actions took precedence over my unwavering abilities to do keg stands and beer bongs and stay awake till all hours of morning and drink fifths of Jack Daniels with no hangover.
Getting old blows.
But getting old means that if these little jackasses down below me don't go to bed soon, I'm gonna start dumping the contents of my trash can out the window and onto their heads. That includes my two-week old salad. And it smells. Bad. Mix that with some water and I think I'll have the perfect "get your asses in bed" concoction.
Or maybe I'll just take an Ambien. After all, I'm fairly convinced the pharmaceutical companies had situations like this in mind when they developed that glorious little pill that knocks you out for 8 hours.
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