Put twelve good women in an enclosed room together for a month, and there's a couple of things that you can be sure will happen. Firstly their cycles will synchronize, leading to a single week of hell every lunar period.
And, without fail, they'll begin to rearrange the furniture.
As if marking their territory with prims instead of urine, each has defined their space with throw pillows, meditation chairs and fireplaces. It's tasteful, and chic, and it's going to drive me out of my mind. Where's the stripper's pole? Where's the mattress room? Where's the goddam big screen TV and 24 hr sports channel? The basic necessities.
Golda the rat lady had built a giant keg. I'd made an off-hand remark about needing to get beer in, and she took it to the extreme. But instead of being filled with the amber nectar, the inside was her nest. And while I'm no connoisseur, rat droppings in my beer always takes the edge off my mid-evening buzz.
Meanwhile in Lillani and Warda's corner, they'd created an installation that riffed off the glass habitrails. I marked time for awhile, walking faster but going nowhere, and for a moment, I was reminded of my life outside the house.
Meanwhile the floozies lined up to gawk at the inmates, and despite my screaming objections, Big Brother held fast that conjugal visits were not allowed.
As if in desperation, and feigning exhaustion, I lay down beside Pannie. A smoking redhead in sheer blue lingerie, it was all the more delicious as I knew her husband was watching from outside the glass. Poor sap. But before I could move into action, the darkness enclosed me, and the first day in the house was over. Sleep tight, maties.
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