Can you believe Hick had the nerve to complain that he wishes he could sleep at night? I know, right? What kind of selfish bunk is THAT? Like I keep him awake, filling his hand with shaving cream, then tickling under his nose with a feather so he splats that white foam into his mouth. Like I roast some midnight marshmallows over the stove burner using my four-pronged mystery gadget, setting off the smoke alarm, then scream, "FIRE!" Like I rummage through the kitchen cabinets, dropping assorted canned goods, then, when picking them up, then exclaim, "JOAN OF ARC CHILI BEANS!" Wait. That last one was my sister-the-ex-mayor's-wife, back when we were teenagers, on Saturday mornings, when I was trying to sleep until noon.
Yes, the guy who goes to bed at 9:00 and arises at 5:30 has the nerve to complain to the gal who goes to bed at 1:00 and arises at 4:50. The guy who sprays ice cold breather air onto the back of the gal's neck as she attempts to snag 20 winks wants her to know that she is keeping him awake. Even though he never responds coherently after bellowing a complaint when his arm is excavated from the gal's pillow tower. I suppose his sore foot could be keeping him awake. The foot he uses to jab and pummel my legs throughout my brief mattress interlude. Though his precious little feet, the envy of Pearl-S.-Buck-Chinese-farmer's wives everywhere, should be satisfied roasting under the toasty quilt. Unlike my own feet, exposed to the elements and underbed monsters, due to that quilt my grandma made me being hiked up to the headboard.
Hick explained to me, in simple terms, like I was a non-English-speaking tourist, but without the high-decibel tone he adopts for phone-talk, that he repositioned that quilt for my benefit. Because I complain (such an exaggeration, as we all know) that he blasts me with icy breather air. Yes. That selfless husband of mine is actually self-suffocating in order to appease his better half.
It is not my fault that Hick repels the elusive ZZZZZZs like oil seeking water.