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January 7, 2007
It's too quiet," I say. "Let me put on some music."

It isn't too quiet. It's too loud. Too loud with the slurp of his incessant grape-gobbling. It only been ten minutes, but it may as well be an hour. I want to ram pliers into my ears or slam a hammer into his mouth.

"You just want to mask the sound of me eating," he says.

"Not SOUND," I want to say. "NOISE, damn it. NOISE!"

I play music I know he hates. His handful of grapes can't possibly last longer than an albumful of The Decemberists.

I win.