by John Grey
The quiet is always on notice.My roommate calls it out constantly,bayonets the air with profanity.My sensibilities don't matter.
He hacks of course. And he sneezes.And it's always "Hello, it's me,"louder than a talking head on Fox,as he screams into the shiny screenof his telephone.
And he's always restless,wants to be doing something.So I tell him, "Then go do it."But he prefers to stay behindand burden me with his regretsthat he didn't get it done.
There must be an art to thinkingwhen you're in the company of the thoughtless.I've tried everythingbut my head just gets pummeled for its troubles.A loud mouth beats a rational explanationevery time.
There's nothing worsethan an overbearing roommate.Especially when I live alone.He's so bombasticthere's never any doubtthat I am him and he is me.All I want to do is spenda peaceful night at home.But, for that to happen,I'd have to do it without me.