It could have been worse.

My brother's apparently gone on a Ben Franklin schedule: bed at sunset, up at sunrise. I went to bed somewhat later in order to try and pound my body clock back into sync.

So, at ten-thirty, my brother wakes up suddenly, hearing unfamiliar noises in the house. He tells me in the morning that I was lucky I wasn't outside his door when he opened it.

Wielding an 8-iron, no less.

He forgot that I'd come home. Lucky for me he remembered before he did his John Daly impression. Or would Carl Spackler be more appropriate?