I snore—loudly, I’m told. My wife knows this. Anyone who has ever roomed with me knows this. This is my story.

I’m not exactly sure when I started snoring, but I know when it became a problem. I was 21 and living in Brazil. I was a missionary and crashing with another volunteer from California (What up, Chris!).

One morning, I woke to find balled up socks around my pillow. There must have been five or six of them, all stinky and whatnot. “Why are there dirty socks on my bed?” I asked my companheiro. “Dude, you were snoring like crazy,” came the reply.

You see, Chris didn’t use a hamper. He just let his soiled clothes congregate around his bed until laundry day, so he had plenty of ammunition to counter my snoring, especially rolled up socks.

I laughed upon hearing his technique, mostly because it failed to wake me. Chris laughed too. But he was understandably annoyed by his new roommate’s audible defect. As is anyone else within two clicks of me asleep.

Although I won’t deny my bad habit has been a source of amusement in my life, I offer my sincerest condolences just the same. With a smile, of course.