It is 4 in the morning and my crash on the couch has been rudely interrupted by the sound of what is surely a large bird, bat, or winged rodent flying maniacally about my bedroom, trapped and rabid (Google said so), and without a doubt plotting to kill me. I proceed to sit frozen on the couch for a solid five minutes, asking myself:
"Should I smoke a bowl and go back to sleep?"
"What man (sorry ladies!) can I call to fix this?!"
and, lastly,
"How the hell do I get this demon creature out of my apartment without having to look at or touch it?"
With no bodega boyfriend in sight I decide I'm goin' in and dart frantically around from one light switch to another, fumbling with each flip before swinging open both doors to the common hallway and garden in dire hopes this ferocious beast will tremble it's way out of this moon base, full salute.
And then, in my final moments on Earth, I reluctantly tip toe into the culprit's layer, blanket on head and broom in hand, peering into every nook and cranny for a sign of life only to discover...
an empty fig newton wrapper flapping methodically in the wind of my freshly activated steam heater.