The Five...or Maybe Six Stages of Grief

     I resisted my friend's rude intrusion last night while I snoozed in my bed. He kept shaking me and telling me the toilet was overflowing and the bathroom was flooding, but I only wanted to snuggle deeper into my pillow and pretend the world could get along fine without me. I don't ordinarily get the kind of sleep where I don't know I'm sleeping, and I had been thinking to myself that this sleep was that kind of sleep.  I wasn't aware of my dreams all night, so my brain was finally achieving a level of rest I had been seeking for my entire life. These nights are the best nights. But my rude bed buddy persisted in waking me and insisted I take control of the increasing horror going on in the bathroom.

     Here's the thing. Three or four degrees decorate his wall. People far less educated than him have been able to figure out the overflowing toilet problem for generations. What is his freakin' problem? For that matter, what's my freakin' problem? How am I always ending up with the kinds of guys who can't or WON'T take the initiative to fix the problem (whatever the problem may be) when the problem arises? Why do I have to be the one to give up all the excellent sleep? Why do I have to do everything myself?

     I would have given him my third-born child if he would have just taken care of it and let me roll over and get a couple more hours of sleep. I'm tired, bitches.

     But...he was right. It's my bathroom, my responsibility. It's my toilet.  I'm the one who knows where I hide the plunger. I understood at that point he would never be able to find it slightly to the right of the toilet tank. I groaned as I rolled away from him to my side of the bed.

     I sat on the edge for a few seconds. Through bleary eyes, I stared at the clock and tried to calculate how much time I had been asleep and if it was going to be enough to get me through my day, because I still have to do homework for five classes, and hang out at my job for eight hours or so. If this toilet situation didn't abate, I might have to deal with a plumber on top of everything else.

     Whatever. I'm Supergirl. I can handle it.

     The bathroom is about fifteen feet away from my bed, and in the time it took for me to drag my tired body over there I had prepared myself for the worst case scenario. The sights and sounds, and OH MY GOD, the smells of what I was about to face...

     But you know what?

     There was nothing there. Just a nice, clean, orderly bathroom. The mats on the tile floor remained fluffy and un-disgusting. The pristine blue water rested in the white porcelain bowl without a hint of overflow. Nothing needed my special attention.

     I looked twice, just to be sure, and maybe again, because why would my friend tell me there was a situation when there was obviously no situation? Was he dreaming?

     I decided he must have been dreaming, so I returned to the bed to shake him awake and let him know that the toilet was not overflowing. The horror was not increasing. We could all go back to bed and get some well-deserved sleep.

     And then it hit me.

     He was not there. He was never there. I live by myself. I don't ever have a bed buddy. That guy doesn't even know where I live. We don't hang out.  The last thing he said to me was he'd see me this summer and, I haven't seen him all summer. He would never be cozy enough with me to be shaking me out of my dreams.

     Ain't that a bitch? I can't even dream the good dreams when he finally shows up in them. I can only dream the dreams that have me wishing for a better dream.

     Or at least for a couple more hours of sleep.