Roommate Plus One

This was written from the haughty, almost elitist, side of my personality (which has a fake British accent) sort of tongue-in-cheek.

They came with noise:

the chatter and laughter of those

who are very pleased with themselves,

and they were very tickled

(like freshly bathed toddlers

ten minutes from bed time)

thought more so with themselves

than with each other,

strumming and singing

made up songs with silly lyrics

crescendoing with the under-the-table one-upmanship

of ‘friendly’ competition.

They continued their musical wrestling match;

intent upon destroying the beauty that once was

the fragrant flowerbed of silence

I had so lovingly planted

and tended to.

I paid then no mind,

recognizing the hunger of poverty and addiction

and fearing they would violently devour

the entire span of my attention

with the voracity of newly hatched


leaving little of it left for the very personal

self-lathering I had planned for

later (while luxuriating in a bath of the

lovingly labored over silence mentioned earlier).

I did, however, offer up

a smile

as I tuned into my inner crescendoing trolley

of thought (it had started out as a train but

was abruptly derailed, and subsequently overturned,

by the inconsiderate sonic equivalent of a grade school

orchestra on helium and sugar

on the morning after a week of binge drinking in Vegas,

having found yourself in bed next to a stripper

two days before your wedding… but I digress).

So, smiling,

I turned inward

and continued to read.

One who is truly pleased

with ones’ self

can contently be so