I’m pretty startled, and all I catch of what he was saying is “this is the police, come out with your hands up.”  I’m immediately excited, and then kind of confused, followed by absolute terror, which was quickly followed by bemusement.  I’m thinking to myself after this flood of emotion:

“This is awesome!!!”

“I’ve never experienced anything like this before, some neighbor is getting busted!”  After the dude had finished that first sentence that I only caught a portion of, he started on a second.  It went something to the effect of:

“Rob Muriel, this is the police, we have come for your anus.  Your anus is ours.  Come out with your hands up immediately.”

Now, for those of you who don’t know, Rob Muriel is my roommate.  The one who lives across from me.  Not Matt, who lives on the other end of the apartment, facing the other street, not the one I’m facing.  Rob’s room is facing the same street that my room is, and it’s the same street the dude with the megaphone is on.  After hearing him say Rob’s name, I realized that this isn’t awesome at all, in fact, it’s a prank, and really inconsiderate.  I think to myself “What the fuck?” and start getting out of bed.

I’m wearing some pajama pants, and am shirtless as I walk to my window to crack the shades.  I want to know who this is.  Who this is who has so rudely awoken me.  Good thing I don’t have to be up early for anything, otherwise I would have been quite upset.

As I’m parting the blinds I hear a third sentence claiming again that the man with the megaphone has ownership of the private sector of Rob’s glute.  I’m not wearing my glasses, so all I see outside is a big, black or dark blue van with white, skwiggly writing on the side that reminded me of a florist’s van.  They’re parked in the middle of the street, at the corner of Purdue and Tulane.  Still shouting for Rob to come outside, I open the window, and cup my hands around my mouth and shout:

“You motherfuckers!  Other people live here!”

To which they speedily drove off saying “Eh, uh, thanks, asshole” and did the siren sound some megaphones make.  Good comeback, I think to myself.  Gladly they drove off, cause for some reason I was prepared, even considering my current attire, to go outside and beat the shit out of anyone and everyone glassesless, because I didn’t want them broken.  That would be difficult, and maybe impossible; I’d be fighting blurs.  Blind rage I guess.

The next day Rob sends me a text in the morning around 9am asking that I would call him when I woke up.  Around 10:30am I call him, and he says “I’m so glad you called right now, I wanted to ask you what happened last night.”

Apparently Rob was dreaming when the first shout rang out, he said it appeared in his dream, he thinks, but it woke him up.  He got up around the time I did and went to the window, looked out, and then heard me shout, and heard there tart, immature reply, and saw them speed off.  After which, he went back to bed.  He asked my side of the story because he wasn’t sure if his experience actually happened or if he was, to quote word for word, “just tripping balls.”  I reassured him that there are no balls to trip over.

After I got back into bed after shouting at the dudes in the van, I laughed aloud three separate times about how I responded, and then fell asleep.

I had asked a few friends who had gotten theirs taken out, and one in particular, one who used to do drugs and smoke weed and stuff said that afterwards he felt the highest in his life.  Needless to say, as one who’s never done drugs, and has never been drunk, I was excited to feel this way.  But, after “waking up” I only felt overly happy and a little woozy.  My roommate Matt Scheer said I was pretty talkative.  More than usual.  I felt like I was doing it on purpose in the hopes to say something ridiculous and hilarious for them all to crack up about.  No feeling of being high, and nothing ridiculous came out of my mouth.  Oh well, maybe next time I’ll be one some harder stuff…

Over the weekend I didn’t do anything particularly chill.  I walked around the St. Louis Zoo for hours on Saturday with Ian and Mandy.  Ate Imo’s for dinner, which I was surprised I could handle.  I expected to be on soft foods all weekend.  Came home and hung out with Rob till late in the evening.

Sunday I woke up pretty tired, and more woozy than even.  I sat around, sewed some jeans, watched the Pianist, which I was unfortunately uninterested in while it was going on, and messed with Matt’s guitar.  I had planned on going to church most of the day, an early service, a 10am service, and an evening service at 7pm.  I forgot to set an alarm, slept till 10:25, then felt too woozy to drive to the evening service.  Lame, but what can you do.

I hadn’t thought of this till today, but all my equilibrium and balance systems are in my head, pretty close to where my top wisdom teeth are.  I was thinking that I was woozy ’cause of the Meds, but it’s cause of the teeth.  The only noticeable effect the meds have had are with tiredness.  I still feel pretty disoriented even now (Tuesday night.)  I wonder when I’ll get back to normal.  Work gets uncomfortable when I have trouble standing up straight.  I hadn’t been able to work overtime the past two days (or rather, didn’t) ’cause I felt this way.  This weekend is a 3 day weekend and I’m going home to see my family.  I hope to be a-okay for that.  We’ll see.

Monday night we went to slackers and I sold a bunch of cds (including the awful new Copeland) and bought Curl Up and Die’s entire catalog and Breather Resist’s Charmer.  6 cds, 6 bucks after a 28 buck trade-in.  What a deal.  Hot damn.

Every so often I like to wander around to places I’ve never been in my mind all the time that I think I’ve got nothing else to do.

Eh, forget about id