It's almost hilarious how loud and chaotic our house is.
As in "I would find this hilarious if I wasn't crying from sheer frustration-slash-exhaustion from needing a friggin' minute of silence already".
Equally knee-slapping funny: my house consists of myself, one grown man and a dog.
And possibly a nest of centipedes yet to come out of hibernation.
So between Corey and Oliver I find myself in a never-ending cacophony of ultra-loud talking, licking of one's privates, blaring music, random gibberish and the shaking to death of Christmas Bear. At some point you would think one or both of them would tire and curl up in a ball at the foot of the bed.
That never happens.
There is always a panting head hovering withing five inches of my face at all times, and I am never unaware of Corey's location in our apartment:
"What time is your meeting?.....WHAT?!" shouted from the bedroom.
"Who was on the phone?.....WHAT?!" shouted from the kitchen.
These days I come home around 10pm and I find all of the questions and gibberish and licking and panting are bottled up and saved just for me in that magical hour of 11 o'clock which I normally devote to, you know, sleeping.
But deep down, like way down in there, past my secret love of Hootie and the Blowfish and sleeve tattoos I know this is just how the boys show me I'm missed.
...but I really would like my sleep back.