I awoke at 11:30 a.m. to the sound of a fist banging manically on my bedroom door and my father shouting, "Get up! Get up! Get! Up!"

A few thoughts entered my head. Was the house on fire? Had I slept through some important time-sensitive event, such as a dentist's appointment or a relative's funeral? And, most critically, what the hell did I do last night?

These mysteries would have to be solved later, as my father would surely burst through the door at any moment to rouse me from bed, albeit for reasons still unknown. To prepare for his entry, I made sure I had some clothes on — check — and then scanned my room for cum rags, empty beer bottles or other incriminatory items — nothing in sight. Oh, except for the small bedside wicker garbage bin lined with my pillow cover. Why would I...? Oh, right. Last night. Damn, I must have been drunk — drunk enough to warrant the positioning of a cautionary vomit receptacle by my bed, evidently.

I took the cover out of the bin and slipped it back onto my pillow just as my dad threw open the door.

"Get up!" He stormed over to the window and opened the blinds. What the hell is going on? I'd never seen him this angry before, especially about something so innocuous as my sleeping until noon. Cut me some fucking slacking — I graciously agreed to extend my stay in New York by over a week, I didn't get back from my friend's house last night until 4 a.m., and I start my nine-to-five in just 10 days. I'm sorry if your blue-collar sensibilities are offended by the sleeping habits of a post-collegiate 22-year-old, but let's act our age and cut the tantrum.

Of course, none of my inner monologue escaped, because the violent disruption ended as suddenly as it had begun. In the blink of an eye, my father was gone, and it wasn't until I heard the roar of his lawn mower that I felt comfortable enough to really consider what had happened. Just five more days, and then I'm out of here. Thank god.