You don't feel better as you wake and slowly rise

My sister is not a morning person. If you want to wake her up, you should go in armed, maybe wearing a protective vest of some kind. She puts her alarm clock across the room from her bed, the lets it go off for eight minutes straight, then staggers out of bed, bashes in the snooze button and repeats the entire process for an hour.

My dad's alarm clock is a special kind of aural torture. It sounds like the very angry bastard child of a duck and an air raid siren. It doesn't so much wake you up as it yanks you physically and violently from a peaceful slumber and drop you from great height onto shards of glass. And it does this every morning at four a.m.

Last night was the last night we spent in the old house. It's the house I grew up in. And you know what? I don't care. I don't care that I once threw a temper tantrum on those stairs because I didn't want to turn three just yet; I don't care that I got my first kiss in that basement or that I once made out with This Guy under the bodega by the pond; I don't care that I used to sit on those stairs and listen to my dad play guitar; I don't care that Commander Pop and I were sitting in that corner when we trounced Falstaff and The Ex in the perfect game of euchre. I don't care, I don't care, I don't care about any of that sentimental stuff.

because the new house is big. The master suite is on the first floor, Right of Center's room is on the other side of the building from my own.

And I never again have to listen to the braying of another alarm clock not my own again.

I love the new house.