a prisoner in my own home

It’s Tuesday night again, and I’m back on the kitchen floor, in the dark, with the faucet running behind me, listening to the baby sniffle in her sleep. She’s been asleep for about five minutes now, but it’s hard to tell if it’s going to last. Every few minutes she shrieks like something out of Native American folklore, but then, almost immediately, the screaming gives way to the muted sobbing of unhappy sleep again. Somehow she’s able to do this without waking herself. I think that maybe the 45-minutes straight of full-body screaming that preceded her nodding off must have tired her out.

When I was young, and playing in noise bands, the thought of making truly horrible, cacophonous music really appealed to me. I remember delighting in the fact that my friends and I could clear a room, or a bar, within minutes… Anyway, that’s what I’m thinking about right now. I’m thinking that perhaps it’s only fair that I’m made to spend my Tuesday nights like this.

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