Pondering Part II: Past Ponderings

I was just laying here on my bed, as I have been doing with spectacular frequency this weekend, just waiting for my sheets and towels to be dry. I started to dose off watching the dust particles flit around in a late day ray of sunshine currently beaming into my room. I thought to myself, "Man. I'm tired. This hangover shit is lame. I wonder if I should just go to sleep once I put my laundry away and make up my bed. That would be around 8:30 p.m. Is 8:30 p.m. too early to go to bed?"

And then I remembered.

When my older brother and I were younger, our bedtime was 8:30 p.m., I shit you not. We had to be in bed by the stroke of 8:30 or risk getting our asses beat. This was always a bone of contention in the summertime. We LOATHED daylight savings time. All our friends would be outside playing until 10, and we'd be called in TWO HOURS BEFORE THAT.

I recall this one evening in particular. I was sleeping in my brother's room because there was a werewolf in my closet (thanks, Dad, for taking me to go see American Werewolf In London at the tender age of FIVE), as well as one of the ALIEN monsters (Steve, you fucking sadist). They coexisted in the hellpit that I was convinced comprised my bedroom closet.

Additionally, there was a nasty troll living under my bed that required I take a running jump from my doorway to my bed in order to avoid it reaching out its gray, slimy, razor-sharp claws and slicing up my ankles or worse, dragging me under my bed to certain brutal, violent death. Sometimes though, the terror would overwhelm me and I would just sit on top of my bed and scream my fucking head off until my mom let me sleep in my brother's room. It went something like this:

Eardrum-piercing shrieking commences:

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

"DANIELLE! SHUT UP OR SO HELP ME GOD I WILL COME UP THERE AND BEAT YOUR ASS!"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

"GO TO SLEEP GODDAMMIT!!!"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

Angry footsteps approach my room. My angry mother fills my doorway.

"What the HELL is WRONG WITH YOU!?"

"W-w-were (hiccup) w-werewolves and the (hiccup) the t-t-trollllLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"

"DANIELLE RENEE. THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS WEREWOLVES OR TROLLS!"

"I-I-I-DON'T CAREEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHYESTHEREISAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!"

"FINE! GO SLEEP IN YOUR BROTHER'S ROOM! I'M TIRED OF THIS SHIT!"

"Ok."

So, that's usually how I ended up in my brother's room with him.

One day, we're both laying there, he's hating me for encroaching on his sleeping space and I'm hating him because it's my job. We're both mutually hating my mother for making us go to bed amid the sounds of our friends' laughter in the streets still lit up with late summer sun. To make matters worse, two GIANT hot air balloons drift across the window.

I look at him and he looks and me. It's an historical moment, because we're both in agreement: THIS. BLOWS.