When I got back from Boston after the holidays, I was informed by my roommate that, in my absence, the superintendent had "insulated" the windows in our bedrooms. Now, as best I could tell upon examination, this "insulating" had consisted of his hastily duct taping some plastic wrap in our window bays, but I was still pleased considering my bedroom had been awfully chilly since early December.
Well, it is now about a week since I returned to New York, and I ain't so pleased anymore.
Here's the thing: while it is marginally warmer in my bedroom post-insulation, the plastic wrap is taped in such a way that it makes this crinkly, popping noise in its natural resting state. The best way I can describe the noise is "dysfunctional popcorn machine." And there's no pattern to the "popping" whatsoever: five minutes of silence will be followed by 45 seconds of an origami bird having a seizure.
About three times a night, I have half-lucid fantasies of tearing off my bedsheets, standing up in bed, ripping off the plastic sheet triumphantly, and then happily dissipating into Alex Mack-style goo in my bed, finally able to fall asleep. Once I woke up in the morning so sure that I had torn down the "insulation" during the throes of my slumber that when I heard the popping as I got dressed I thought I had gone mad and was stuck with this noise for life.
I feel like I am trapped in a miserable "Would You Rather?" game: would you rather be freezing cold but able to sleep in silence or be comfortably warm but woken up about three times a night and driven to near-insanity by the grumbles of the plastic monster?
Of course, I could probably tear down the plastic and construct a makeshift "insulation" of stuffed animals or avocados or whatever, but the masochist in me is loving this continual source of agony.