I have now woken and returned to sleep several times, before finally giving up and hunting down the damnable shower and wreaking my vengeance upon it.
Why, oh why, do the showers of the people who's houses I stay at always exist in a much better, more forceful, more dependable state than mine? Apparently it's a universal law of sorts...
The cats continue to demand to be petted. The one, Niles, is a long hair, grey cat, very cute, very vocal, very demanding. He currently has some threatening young men in suits holding me down while he plaintively mewls "pet me, damnit, my life is wasting away here". I have no choice but to pet him, yet I must itch...
In the lingering aftermath of last night's fiasco of drunken orgying and wholesale destruction (the wrath of Jurph is fearsome to behold), my only coherent thought before I collapse into an eternal stupor is The Rocky Horror Fans Must Die.