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and I can't stop thinking about it. My mom decided to turn our house into a ragtime saloon and it was SO LOUD twenty four hours a day because of the rousing Joplin tunes and the rowdy old-timey men and the bawdy barmaids and I could not get any work done at all. So I approached my mom and said, in the calmest, most direct manner I could, "Mom, I don't appreciate you turning our house into a ragtime saloon without even talking to me about it first. It's so loud all the time that I'm not getting enough sleep and consequently, I am not getting enough work done. I would appreciate it if our house could go back to being a house instead of a hubbub for early jazz influences."
But my mom didn't care. She was all, "You can't tell me what to do! We're making a ton of money, so you just have to suck it up!"
I tried to tell her that we couldn't pay the bills with early 20th century bank notes, but she would have none of it. So I had to try to work while some mustachioed, bowler hat-wearing guy named Jenkins played the piano at all hours and his buddies sang "Ta Ra Ra Boom De Ay" at two in the morning while swishing around their tankards of ale.
When I went downstairs the next morning, I wasn't fully awake, and so I was pretty darn irritated with my mom. I mean, for Pete's sake, you can't just open a ragtime saloon willy nilly like that. You have to TALK about these things.
I told her about the dream and we laughed it off, but now every time I play The Entertainer on the piano, I feel like walking up to the next guy I see with a handlebar mustache and a bowler hat and punching him in the face because, excuse me, sir, it is midnight and you won't cut out the racket, how am I supposed to finish my essays?