Sex on the Fly
I was sitting in my hospital call room yesterday, silently fuming about the sounds of sex emanating through my window. I was on a slow burn, wanting to make them stop; wanting to explode, to vent about their exuberance and make them aware I was helplessly aware. Of them.
The fuckers.
I finally lost it, getting up from the computer desk and rapping loudly on the window. The squawking stopped for a moment, then resumed with unusual fervor. Worse still, I could see too much. I found a water bottle, removed the lid, then opened the window and doused the pair with its contents. Success! The angry twosome left as I slammed the window shut.
Damned pigeons.
The fuckers.
I finally lost it, getting up from the computer desk and rapping loudly on the window. The squawking stopped for a moment, then resumed with unusual fervor. Worse still, I could see too much. I found a water bottle, removed the lid, then opened the window and doused the pair with its contents. Success! The angry twosome left as I slammed the window shut.
Damned pigeons.