My neighbors are having sex again. Not as loud as last time, but loud enough. Seriously. It's not that I'm a total prude and have anything against sex, it's just . . . jesus christ. It's like being subjected to the sound of bad porn, night after night. And the banging on the wall? There are three other, unshared walls in that bedroom; bang on one of those. The worst times, of course, are when I'm at that deep-breathing, perfectly still pre-sleep state, only to be shaken out of the calm by her insane moaning and his primal grunting. So then I not only have to wait until it's all over to even think about falling asleep, but I inevitably end up getting really pissed off and want to pull my hair out and trying to fall asleep with your teeth gritted can be very uncomfortable. Of course, sometimes . . . No, I'm not divulging any more. Ultimately, on nights like these I begin to see marriage proposals from joking strangers who don't have over-sexed, orgasm-faking neighbors in a different light. Oh, to be so lucky.

But back to the issue of writing. Despite the overwhelming urge to write creatively, I am currently exercising my god-like powers of procrastination over the philosophy abstract that I have due on Tuesday. It's so stupid, too, because I know exactly what I'm going to write about, and I even feel like I came up with a pretty good idea. I just don't want to write the goddamn thing. And at its maximum, this fucking paper is only supposed to be two pages, so I don't know what the hell I'm waiting for, but whatever. I'll get it done. Just not right now, when I should.

I also realized that the reading journal that I am way too behind on is due next Monday, so I'm sure I will be a slave to that for the next week. Absolutely lovely.

In other news, I went home for dinner tonight and it was incredibly stressful because the two-year-old buster her lip open and had to get stitches. Why my mom still wanted me to come out is beyond me. We didn't even get to talk at all. I ended up having to cook dinner because my mom didn't get back from the emergency room until 6:30, and I was really upset about that. I am firmly decided--I hate cooking. I would rather do the fucking dishes than have to actually make the shit. Anyway. The baby was all doped up when my mom brought her home, so we were having to be really careful to make sure than she didn't try to walk and fall flat on her face. So that, combined with the usual hyperactivity of the four-year-old and the fact that my other two sisters don't know how to communicate in any way other than yelling, made for a very stressful evening. I realized that I go to see my mom on the weekend out of a sense of duty and obligation rather than out of want. And the recognition of that made me feel like a horrible person, and it also made me a little bitter. I thought I was going to get next weekend off from all of them because my work schedule isn't what it usually is on weekends, but now my mom has asked me to come out on Friday so I can see the girls in their halloween costumes. A picture would do, but I can't say no. So I'm going.

Ellen told me that she solved the problem of her familial obligations by just moving the hell away. She's a smart woman.

And on a final note, why the hell does my 16 year old sister still insist on going trick-or-treating?

Grow the fuck up.

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