This morning I woke up feeling grateful to be alive on account that I was almost murdered last night. Well, at least that’s what I thought at 2 a.m.
Here’s what happened . . .
I woke up suffering from what I thought at the time, were stab wounds on my face. Possibly the fact that I watched Criminal Minds before going to bed last night didn’t help but when I woke up – from my stab wounds – I had to dare myself to walk through my house and look in all the closets to find my murderer.
Only calling him a murderer when I was still alive felt a little like counting my chickens before they’re hatched – and I knew this – but like I said, it was the middle of the night and I thought I was half dead. (Turns out I was mostly just half asleep.)
You may not know this about me but sometimes – especially in the middle of the night – I have a feral imagination. As I walked through my house with my dogs, Dakota and Jed (whom at the time I was ready to divorce because how dare they not protect me from whoever it was that had just tried to kill me in my sleep), I saw and heard my murderer EVERYWHERE. The shadows, the creeks . . . In fact, every scary movie I have ever seen in my life passed before my eyes.
Hannibal Lector, Chucky, Norman Bates, Freddy Krueger, Jason . . .
To be honest, I’ve never actually watched any of these movies but somehow these psychotic killers have still managed to climb inside the hamster’s cage. Which is why I’m not allowed to watch Criminal Minds by myself anymore. Except that last night I WAS by myself so no one was there to remind me.
As it turns out, my murderer was my pillow. And don’t let the portrayal of softness fool you. My pillow really did stab me in the face. Several times. Only it wasn’t the pillow’s fault. Just like it’s not the gun’s fault when you get shot in the head.
So whose fault is it? The people who MADE the pillow.
Question to pillow makers:
Would it be so hard to cut the ends off the feathers before you stuff them into the pillow casings?
Just so you know, if I ever invite you over to dinner, I may and may not cut the ends off my string beans.
How do you think the chicken feels who left its feathers behind. Kernel Sanders is an axe murder. He always blamed his successexes on his wife for driving him nuts. Poor chicken!
I KNOW that murderer! LOL Glad I’m not alone.