June 5, 2007
The house isn't burning, no need to jump awake at the sound of a voice. All he wants is his coffee and breakfast. My pillow is covered in drool. Thanks to a mouthguard the snoring is down to a dull roar and no molars are cracking from the grinding pressure but drool, my god, like being transformed into a Newfoundland dog during the night and then back to human form again, magically, with the dawn, leaving only snot and spittle and puddles of drool where-ever my great shaggy head lolled about during the night. Drowned in my own spit.