Yeah, he’s lying there next to me, snoring like a rhino with a deviated septum that’s got a sheep shoved up his remaining good nostril. Yak-snurck, snorty, hum, yak-snok. Over and over and over a-fucking-gain.

This after 2 minutes and 12 seconds of the most gawky, spit-infused writhing under kneecaps and bony elbows that I’ve had to endure since that time in 6th grade when I got felt up in the coat closet by the boy who turned out (9 years later) to be a fag.

Then — as now — I’m left with a 3-inch triangle that feels like it was rubbed raw by a bristly corncob, along with a hankering to know why most guys fail to grasp that “harder” and “faster” are NOT synonymous.

So why am I writing this? Well, because for some reason he woke up wondering why there were feathers in his mouth, which proves the difference between wondering and knowing.

I had to set the pillow down and step away to blog… if only because I don’t look good in orange prison jump suits.