LOU RASMUS

There’s a dance studio below my apartment – DUHMPH DUMPH DUMPH DUMPH! There it goes right now. The stomping and stamping and DUHMPH DUHMPH DUHMPHing of a hundred feet all at once. There’s supposed to be a rhythm to it, but I can’t make one out. Not clearly, at least. It’s just a bunch of noise, and I’m still trying to sleep. I look at the clock. It’s only eight in the fucking morning. Ruthless bastards, don’t they know that it’s rude to dance this early? Don’t they have any goddamned deceny? DUHMPH DUHMPH DUHMPH DUHMPH! I turn over and try to block it out. I pull the pillow over my head. I pull the pillow over and I pull the sheets up. Anything to shut them up. But it’s not enough. Nothing’s enough. The drumming of feet won’t stop, and it won’t stop, and it won’t stop. I’m helpless. I’m at the mercy of the feet. “Fuuuck,” I moan, and I get up to make some coffee.