BAM! A slick sheen of sweat clings to my skin, making my jeans stick to me like velcro and suddenly I'm bolt upright, a classic nightmare awakening.
Light peeks through the curtains like a pervert and I'm forced to decide whether I'm awake or not. After careful deliberation yields no choice, I decide to sleep on it and think about it later. Working my way deeper into the fold in the couch, hoping to seek refuge from the light that seems determined to thwart my quest for sleep, another loud BAM! ricochets through the house.
This time I'm well and truly awake, the gauze that had wrapped my head in sleep has been ripped off cartoon style and I feel slightly dizzy.
I run through what could possibly be making such a racket at... Wait, what time was it? Achieving the seemingly impossible task of focusing my eyes, the time turned from a blurry mess to 18:04. Having only been conscious for a few seconds my brain has as much chance of understanding a 24 hour clock as it does of a stoned person actually trying to be insightful without sounding like a complete fool.
A third BAM! shakes me to the core like a desperate nanny with a baby that wont stop crying, except this time it's more of a KNOCK! and I realize that someone's at the door.
Traveling fast, my feet are at the end of the hall while my mind idles back in the living room, still trying to work out what's happening.
Catching up with my feet which are standing impatiently at the door, I mumble loudly "JussasecImmmmcomihh" in the hope that I didn't get up only to have missed what could be the greatest opportunity EVER!
Or not.
As I'm opening the door I realize I'm still wearing the same clothes that I was three days ago, a tshirt with "I read your email" written on it, cunningly decorated with assorted stains from my childhood and a pair of jeans that were starting to feel like they were coated in clag.
Before I even see who it is, I cringe, imagining myself standing there with my hair jumping out everywhere like solar flares and my eyes that are more glazed than a Krispy Kreme doughnut.
Clipboard tucked firmly at her chest, a woman who appears to be nothing than a massive smile greets me, she's shadowed by a man who looks like that guy who's always hassling you for change at the bus stop.
Terror sets in as the prospect of being harassed about why I don't want to give money to their cause - which is obviously more worthy than Jesus was holey - hits me.
I know what they're going to say before it comes out their mouths, the rhetoric had somehow stuck in my brain like a song that your 12 year old cousin plays over and over and over and over every time you see them, until you know it word for word and find yourself whistling it without noticing. I can still vaguely remember how that Good Charlotte song goes.
"Hello, I'm/we're from the Blah Blah Blah. Would you like to make a donation to help the poor whoevers, or perhaps take some time to learn more about their affliction/misfortune?"
As I'm running through the speech in my head, I'm missing what is actually being said.
The woman's lips are moving, and I can imagine her mother saying "Would you like some lips with your lipstick". The lame joke combined with memories of peanut butter cities towering into the air on toast foundations make me snort in laughter. The lips snap shut like a Gucci bag, gratuitous and opulent, the lipstick looks like leather that has had been turned into cake frosting. I wonder what it would taste like, and my eyes are dragged down, down, down by my raging hormones, perversion taking advantage of my wafer thin consciousness.
A poingnant "Ahem" that carrys all the weight of a kick to the pink bits seems to blast from the lips, taking cue from Spinal Tap and turning it up to 11.
My eyes snap back to the lips which are now pursed, the fake Gucci logo that was glued on having come unstuck to reveal a cheap knock-off. It takes me a second to realise that I'd been completely ignoring her, and then another one to realise that maybe, just maybe, a dirty looking teenager with wandering eyes and deaf ears is less than impressive to the type of woman who wears a suit.
Looking at her lips still, I don't notice the rim of moisture that forms around her eyes, mixing slightly with eyeshadow that's been applied with a spade. Nor do I notice knuckles that are bleach white from fingers that are holding onto the clipboard like it belonged to Jesus. Shaking slightly, the lips ask in measured, even tones that pound like sledgehammers, would I like to learn about peace and harmony between men, or perhaps I might like to look at some of their literature. I look down and see a bunch of magazines that are unreadably glossy in the harsh sun. The situation begins to hit me like natural light after spending all day with only the neon glow of school lights for illumination and I'm stunned for a second.
Slightly shocked that I've been caught doing something I shouldn't, all I can say is "uuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh". It must seem like I just rose from primordeal ooze, knuckles still dragging along the ground.
I'm staring at the magazines, fanned out like cards in a parlour trick.
Muttering a mousey "no" I look at my feet, wishing I was back in the sweet embrace of the couch. Oh, sleep is looking so good right now.
The lips ask am I sure? and my eyes are dragged back upwards. This time I notice legs that are knocking together, hands that look like icicles and chest heaving with the effort of keeping her breathing under control.
Mmm, heaving, up and down. Without noticing it, I'm stuck back looking at her chest again.
A fly falls from somewhere and melts into her suit, just above where I'm looking. Strange, I didn't hear buzzing. Another falls, but I realise it's not a fly.
My gaze jumps away from the now savagly expanding and contracting chest as I hear a loud "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT!?"
Tears are falling freely from eyes that must have seen a thousands doors slam and many times that number of disgruntled suburbians telling her as politely as possible, to fuck off.
The man stands there looking confused, I get the feeling that before the outburst he'd been more interested with something on his shoe than what was happening. Livid with rage, lips that fly like catapaults ask me again, what the fuck am I looking at, huh?
Squeezing out a pathetic "what?" I feel 2 feet tall. There's enough frustration flooding out of her eyes to send a thousand postmen on killing sprees, and it's all directed at me.
"I'LL TELL YOU FUCKING WHAT! YOU WERE.... You Were... you were..." She stands there, swaying like a hung criminal, unable to say it, her anger run dry and replaced with hopelessness.
Falling into the man's arms, she sobs "Fuck you." Then again, but softer and more tired sounding. The man's just standing there, not quite knowing what to do, but glaring at me none the less, his partner burying herself in his arms.
After what seems like an eternity spent watching Citizen Kane over and over again, the man props the woman up at arms length. As quiet as a mouse wearing slippers, he says to her maybe she needs a rest from this whole preaching thing.
Nodding, she turns to me, her face a portrait of misery, eye makeup running down her cheeks like a stained waterfall and eyes puffy, but gleaming.
In one last explosion of desperation, she throws the magazines at me. Just take them, she says.
I'm standing stock still, really fucking confused, one minute ago I was having fuzzy dreams about I don't what, and now I'm having magazines thrown at me by a crazy woman with nice tits and too much makeup.
Magazines flutter down to the ground as the woman sinks back into the man and they shamble off down my driveway and into the street. The man seems to be taking the woman's full weight and the two of them look like a lopsided Igor, walking away from me.
To make myself feel better I just say it's stress, I know plenty of people who have just cracked like that, for the most trivial of reasons, plus I don't want to feel guilty.
I tell myself again that it wasn't my fault.
I hate blame, it sticks like shit.
Diving into the couch, I tell myself for the last time before plunging back into sleep, yeah, it wasn't my fault.