I can sleep when I’m dead
Jerry doesn’t even try anymore.
The one that cost me $1,300 and took two years to pay off.
If I’m out–whether for a girls’ night or a writer’s meeting or even just down the street, Tyler declares it “boys’ night.”
And instead of Jerry saying “C’mon it’s time for bed.” He just says, “Okay. Scoot over.”
It’s not bad once in a while.
But more than once a week, and I wake up looking like Marilyn Manson.
Tyler makes crop circles in the middle of the night.
I swear his jabbing foot has given me more than one inadvertent rectal exam.
Often, in the middle of the night, I give Tyler the big “heave-ho” and shove him over on Jerry’s side.
But he’s like a breech baby. He flips right back to where he was.
This is about the time I bemoan the fact that I don’t have a guest room.
Well, I do, but it’s filled with Jerry’s work-out equipment.
It was worth the trade; I can sleep when I’m dead.