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The joys of living with the q-man
Aug. 6th, 2004 04:14 amSo, when our housemate Q is drunk, or flakey, he does a lot of stupid things. Usually poor ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dragon_spirit ends up dealing with the results of his escapades for some reason, but tonight it was apparently my turn. I suspect the reason for this is that she often wakes before I do. They say that the early bird gets the worm; if by worm you mean chicken and other sundry ingredients left out in the dishrack all night to "defrost"--or other unexpected, and strange treats--then that saying is far more apt than anyone knew. If I were the early bird, I'd consider sleeping in more.
But onto our story. It's 3:45 a.m., right?
And the landline rings. It wakes me up. OK, asshole, whatever. I of course ignore it.
Then the doorbell rings.
Now, normally, I'd ignore the doorbell in the middle of the night, because its probably just some drunk club attendee being annoying. But in this case, I reason, someone who has our number must be trying to get in. It could be a friend who has an emergency (in the area and needs emergency crash space, perhaps?). Since I'm awake already, I throw on my bathrobe and head down, and its this cute guy looking for someone named Steve. I tell him he has the wrong address, and come back up feeling miffed. It's not just getting out of bed at nearly 4 a.m., it's that I've always harbored secret desires to be able to rescue a household friend stranded in the neighborhood. Perhaps, I had been telling myself, this was it! This was my chance!
Anyhow, I'm about to take my bathrobe off and go to bed when the phone rings. I go to answer it. It's the same guy. So I tell him, "OK, you must have the right numbers because this is the number for the address, but his name isn't Steve, its _____ or Q, and he doesn't appear to be here right now."
Now the poor guy makes some reference to how Q had seemed to be genuine, and sleepy Dana finally makes the (rather large) leap of intuition between cute guy at our doorstep at 4 a.m. who barely knows Q and the reference, and realizes what the emergency is.
Booty. After all, what could be more important than hot, gay, booty?
So I quickly interject here, and I say, "Oh, don't worry; our Q is a good little slut, but he's also a good little flake. This sort of thing happens pretty often."
Cute bootie-less gay boy seems mollified and we say goodbye.
Of course, by often, I mean often during the DAY, when his friends show up and he's not home yet, or still asleep, passed out like the dead (in these cases, I take some perverse pleasure in letting his friends in and allowing THEM to wake him; after all, I bet they can do a much better, and much more perverse job than I could, having to maintain a good housemate relationship).
Anyhow, now you too know one of the many joys of living with the Q-man, such that this story can become a part of the written and oral tradition surrounding that strange and mysterious man.
And now, I can get my ass back to bed. *bows, exits stage ZZZZZZZZZZZZ*
dragon_spirit ends up dealing with the results of his escapades for some reason, but tonight it was apparently my turn. I suspect the reason for this is that she often wakes before I do. They say that the early bird gets the worm; if by worm you mean chicken and other sundry ingredients left out in the dishrack all night to "defrost"--or other unexpected, and strange treats--then that saying is far more apt than anyone knew. If I were the early bird, I'd consider sleeping in more.But onto our story. It's 3:45 a.m., right?
And the landline rings. It wakes me up. OK, asshole, whatever. I of course ignore it.
Then the doorbell rings.
Now, normally, I'd ignore the doorbell in the middle of the night, because its probably just some drunk club attendee being annoying. But in this case, I reason, someone who has our number must be trying to get in. It could be a friend who has an emergency (in the area and needs emergency crash space, perhaps?). Since I'm awake already, I throw on my bathrobe and head down, and its this cute guy looking for someone named Steve. I tell him he has the wrong address, and come back up feeling miffed. It's not just getting out of bed at nearly 4 a.m., it's that I've always harbored secret desires to be able to rescue a household friend stranded in the neighborhood. Perhaps, I had been telling myself, this was it! This was my chance!
Anyhow, I'm about to take my bathrobe off and go to bed when the phone rings. I go to answer it. It's the same guy. So I tell him, "OK, you must have the right numbers because this is the number for the address, but his name isn't Steve, its _____ or Q, and he doesn't appear to be here right now."
Now the poor guy makes some reference to how Q had seemed to be genuine, and sleepy Dana finally makes the (rather large) leap of intuition between cute guy at our doorstep at 4 a.m. who barely knows Q and the reference, and realizes what the emergency is.
Booty. After all, what could be more important than hot, gay, booty?
So I quickly interject here, and I say, "Oh, don't worry; our Q is a good little slut, but he's also a good little flake. This sort of thing happens pretty often."
Cute bootie-less gay boy seems mollified and we say goodbye.
Of course, by often, I mean often during the DAY, when his friends show up and he's not home yet, or still asleep, passed out like the dead (in these cases, I take some perverse pleasure in letting his friends in and allowing THEM to wake him; after all, I bet they can do a much better, and much more perverse job than I could, having to maintain a good housemate relationship).
Anyhow, now you too know one of the many joys of living with the Q-man, such that this story can become a part of the written and oral tradition surrounding that strange and mysterious man.
And now, I can get my ass back to bed. *bows, exits stage ZZZZZZZZZZZZ*
