No whispering of sweet nothings

Despite my unconditional love for the Journal, there’s been many a late night when I’ve secretly cursed the grueling hours required by this job because of the hours spent away from my friends, my favourite sports and—arguably most importantly—my bed.

But late one evening a few weeks ago, as I sat toiling away alone in front of a glaring computer screen at 190 University Ave., sighing as the clock ticked past 3 a.m., I received an e-mail from a housemate that made me count my lucky spiral-bound notepads I was out of earshot of the bedroom next door to hers.

One of our fellow residents had returned home from a night at the bar and was (we assume) enjoying a passionate embrace before drifting into sleepy oblivion.

The sounds issuing from the other side of the wall were later described to me as “inhuman.”

The woeful housemate who informed me of the situation was kept awake by the noise, and the occupant of another room on the second floor was woken up by the shrieks and moans of some unnamed woman at the peak of performance (take that as you will).

The less-than-sultry strains of their loquacious love-making even drifted as far down as the main floor.

Exactly one week later, the same thing happened all over again, this time with the added bonus of a high-volume argument later playing out right outside the door of the main-floor bedroom. I don’t care to speculate as to the conflict.

Once again I was grateful to have been safely behind the brick walls of this fine institution.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t begrudge anyone their fun, regardless of the state of my own love life. When it comes to the idiosyncrasies of the personal lives of the people whose existences have little bearing on my own, I do make an effort to leave well enough alone. But, as with many things in life, I can only turn a blind eye (or, in this case, a deaf ear) as long as said idiosyncrasies don’t prevent me from entering my own house in the middle of the night for fear of (to quote another unfortunate housemate) “walking into a porno.”

I’m all for inclusivity and can usually appreciate efforts made to involve me in the goings-on around me. But there are situations in which it really isn’t necessary to make me feel like I’m part of the action.

For a house full of people rudely awakened before 7 a.m. several days a week by floor-shaking explosions, it doesn’t seem like too much to ask to be allowed to sleep through the wee hours of a weekday morning.

I know it’s unreasonable to expect the rooms of a Ghetto house to be soundproof and I’m not suggesting it’s necessary to copulate covertly.

All I ask is that the housemates of the world have the common courtesy to be aware of the rest of the house when you want to get frisky at four in the morning and try to keep it down.

Or at least be sure to shut the door.

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