There should be a new word for miserable

Ah, the hands of fate, the sting of irony. Last night after work, fresh from a 12-hour work day comprised of both jobs, I came home for a six-hour slumber until my early morning shift at the gym today. But my neighbors, and Satan, had other plans for my weary body.

The evening began on a sour note when I came home to discover that my landlord had replaced my stove and oven with...a hotplate and a microwave (I already have a Goddam microwave, but thanks for the unequal recompense, you dumb fuck). I called, not really giving a shit about the time, and screamed bloody murder. Apparently, in an effort to avoid new city regulations, my landlord has made the switch in all of the units without giving a rent break. Living in a studio is painful enough. Living in a bachelor, well, that makes me feel like Dustin Hoffman's prostitute character in Midnight Cowboy. Thus I went to bed in a bitch of a mood, mad at God and all that age-appropriate angst that is part-and-parcel of, you know, leaving everything behind to move to Hollywood and become a movie star.

Before I could even bat an eye, the swine in the building next door decided it was MTV Spring Break, redneck style. And before I could dial non-emergency LAPD, some fat bitches had arrived to laugh and take it up the ass in one of the three bedrooms in which these 50 farm hands reside.

The final nail in my coffin, however, was the round of Armenian bowling in the apartment above mine. I don't know what the fuck was going on, but man, was it loud.

For two hours I tossed and turned. I counted dead fat bitches. I even prayed, thinking that would bring a quick slumber. But noooo, I became an even more bitter man in those two hours. So, in an act of desperation, I gathered my bedding and went into my bathroom, which has an ungodly loud exhaust fan. Unfortunately, it only comes on when the light is on. So I curled up in a ball at the base of my toilet, covered my eyes, and had a steady sleep on the tile. Until my alarm clock rang three hours later. Man, was I in a happy place then.

I called my dad and informed him that I'd be moving home ASAP, that I hated God for making me move to L.A., and that I was tired of working 60 hours a week just to scrape by. I said preemptively that I was unimpressed with the fact that I have my health and limbs, and don't have cancer. That didn't make me any happier.

Eventually I got over it. Although I'm not thrilled with my current conditions (read: I wish the world would end), I know that one day soon, I'll find a new job. And then I can move out of this music video and tell my boss to go fuck himself. And from that day forward, I vow to never be miserable again!