The Cape-Wearing Opera-Singing Max

Mr Bunny

It's somewhat interesting to me to realize that I'm not aware of how freaking annoying something is until it stops. And then it's like removing a vise from around the lungs.

Take, for example, my roommate's cat. He's possibly the cutest cat EVER. I call him Mr Bunny with his big eyes and tiny squeaks and fluffy white and marmalade fur. He's only slightly neurotic with his love of strawberry ice cream and his pretending to try other proffered treats so as not to hurt the offerer's feelings. 

Anyway, evidently my impending move with the massing of boxes and furniture in the meaningless alcove known as the formal living room (not to be confused with the family room that actually has couches and stuff) has triggered an additional neurosis in his tiny brain. Now in addition to thinking he's the fiercest tiny lion superhero he feels compelled to sing about it, in the language of his people, LOUDLY, at 4am.  

Now the loft, where I sleep, is, in the traditon of lofts everywhere, open to the floor below with its tile floor, blank walls, and empty spaces. In his tiny mind it's his shower, his grand stage, his destiny. Holy Fuck his singing echoes. I didn't realize just how much it was impacting my sleep patterns until yesterday, when I had him locked in my roommate's office overnight after a week of hiding my head under pillows and offering a variety of things to whatever god might be listening to make it stop.  And the past two nights, since his seclusion, blissful silence and my sleeping through the night for the first time in what seems like forever. 

Goodbye iron vice on my chest, hello sweet sweet air. Here's hoping my impending move has a similar effect. 

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