They say it's not the snoring itself but those anxiety-packed moments in between snorts. It's the waiting for the nasal passages of the person lying beside you to strike again. And strike it always does. In the dark, almost against your will, you produce that special glare reserved for people who cannot control their own behaviour. Though I am not currently living with a snorer, I long for the days when I was... because anything would be better than the wait for the neighbours to have their next party.
Allow me to further define what I mean here. When I say "neighbours", I mean the people in the building next to mine, those with the apartment with rooms that match mine, so that there is no escape from every conversation they have or self-taught guitar solo they embark upon. And when I say "party," I mean a gathering that doesn't commence in earnest until 3am, actually wakes me up as opposed to prevents me from falling asleep, and continues until approximately 7am, at which point I casually walk out into the street in my slippers, meander over to the front door of their building, cram toothpicks in their buzzer so that it rings endlessly, and then meander my way back to bed. As moderately psychotic as that may seem, I assure you it's nothing compared to the waves of murderous rage that pass through my brain in the undead of night.
But here's the thing – for weeks, it's been quiet. Too quiet. Each evening I put my key in my lock and turn the knob, praying to see no bright light and hear no loud, bass-heavy music from the window across the way. I realise it's just asking for trouble to write this, but – they've gone silent. Maybe they are trapped under some very weighty pieces of furniture. (A girl can dream.) Yet noise or no noise, the potential for major disturbance is all I think about when I come home at night. This week, though, I have finally started to let go and allow myself to hope for a world in which I can leave my bedroom window open, and not Google "wire cutters" and "industrial ear plugs" the next morning. Fingers crossed. A box of 500 toothpicks is remarkably cheap but a good night's sleep is priceless.
Sloane Crosley is the author of 'How Did You Get This Number' (Portobello)