I woke up this morning to my roof leaking. 

Sure, there are worst ways to wake up, but this was particularly unsettling considering that I live in the middle floor of an apartment building. 

Yes, it was raining outside… but was it raining inside? Or at least inside the apartment of the man who lives above me? In my half-sleep state I couldn’t figure out what was happening or if it was real and why, actually, it seemed to be raining in my bedroom. 

Mondays. 

I moved from my room to the couch to snag a few more precious minutes of sleep. (I made the unfortunate choice of starting Downton Abbey yesterday and I couldn’t turn it off last night. So good.) 

After 3 minutes or so of snoozing on the couch, I startled awake. 

It’s raining in my house. What am I doing still asleep? 

It seemed impossible—rain, inside. On the middle floor. But there it was dripping and there I stood standing, laughing about the impossibility of it and the fact that I now needed to do something about it. ADULTHOOD, YO. It seems all too easy to just fall back asleep… but when it’s raining in your bedroom… you’ve got to react. 

But, alas, the joys of renting. At least I don’t have to pay for it.