You hear a polite knock on the door . The closet door .

*You hear a polite knock on the door. The closet door. * 
 
 I lay motionless in bed for a moment, trying to comprehend the possibility that my senses were beginning to fail me; inevitably, room location is the first piece of sanity to go as you age. I began to worry that the washroom I stumbled into last night and obliterated with a Johnny Walker bowel movement was, in all likelihood, the kitchen. 
 
 The knock came again, just as courteous and concise as its first appearance. I propped myself up in bed, and shook my head while simultaneously rubbing my face to sober up for whatever I was about to experience. 
 
 `` Ugh... come in,'' I mumbled. 
 
 The closet door slowly creaked open, and a short figure wearing a suit two sizes too small and a white face cloth taped to its face slowly emerged, allowing half of its body to protrude from the now open closet door. It froze, and stared at me, watching me gaze through the darkened room. 
 
 `` Goddamn it Mickey go home, I'm drunk,'' I groaned falling back onto the bed, `` I am not in the mood for any sort of ridiculous Slenderman nonsense on a Saturday morning.'' 
 
 `` It's actually Phantom of the Opera,'' he replied, `` I did n't have the right socks for the Slenderman costume.'' 
 
 `` Phantom of the... Look. Just go away,'' I said as I retreated under the covers, `` how did you manage to get in my closet for this anyway? My bedroom was locked'' 
 
 `` Only after you got home,'' he howled in a pseudo-ghost voice, waving his arms and fingers at me as he side-stepped to my bedroom door and left. 
 
 Mickey, admittedly, was not the most clever roommate I had ever lived with. But to his credit, he was dedicated to his pranks. 
 

