Of thrushes, thoroughbreds, and death-threats

My roommate Dottie set herself a strict 9:00 bedtime for every night this week.

(I think the earliest she's made it so far has been 10:45. We're all about goal-setting here, but focusing on follow-through is really too much to ask. You understand.)

The first night of this goal, I went to take a shower and Dottie offered a "goodnight," reaching over to turn out her light. Good for goal-keeping Dottie, right?

45 minutes later, after I finished my shower (Fine--it was only10 minutes. This parenthetical is so wannabe...), I re-entered our room and Dottie, kneeling on the floor in front of her laptop, gave a little jump.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Nothing," came the all-too-quick response.

Then I glimpsed the screen.

"Is that...cute baby animals in your search bar??"

It was. I could feel the waves of guilt exuding from her skin. 

My roommates are so cool.

Except for when they want to kill me.

Apparently I violated "the rules" and made an open mockery of Elizabeth and Marie when I offered Lizzie a bust for something clever she said at the dinner table. To be honest, this act was indeed partially of a mocking intent, seeing as Elizabeth and Marie had busted each other at least seventeen times during the previous five minutes, but still, how was I supposed to know there were rules?

Death threats were made. They said they'd murder me and blame it on the witnesses, Lizzie and Sarah.
Valid argument: Elizabeth was on debate team. She went to state.

Basically I've locked myself in my bedroom. I don't go to the library. I don't go to the bathroom. I don't go to the fridge. Want to know why? It's because they're still out there, waiting for me. It's been four hours. Part of me hopes that leaving at an hour of the obscenely early variety to run up a mountain will save me from any surprise morning attacks, but the hope is weak. They know where I sleep. I don't think I'll make it that long.

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