That’d make a fine band name, anyway. They would’ve been playing at the lightswitch rave in my bedroom last night. Though a proper rave would’ve included underdressed party girls, wouldn’t it? Damn my luck.

Let me explain. (There isn’t too much, so I don’t need to sum up.) You see, apparently the 5th of July is the night on which the neighborhood kids get to light off the cheaper fireworks. Their weapon of choice? The strobe bomb (or whatever its technical name is, which I can’t be bothered to look up right now on account of being very, very tired and a bit cranky). I gotta tell ya, it’s awfully difficult to get to sleep when my bedroom is illuminated to almost daylight brightness several times per second for ten seconds, every few minutes, for well over an hour. Occasionally they changed gears and lit off various screamingly noisy things. Hooray for variety. I think they ran out of ammunition around 11:30, then settled for just talking at full volume for a while. Neighbors, schmeighbors. Nobody needs to work the next day, right?

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see about staggering and stumbling my way through my workday.