Don’t you hate it when you wake up in the middle of the night and you feel like a demented koala bear is latched onto and attacking your left arm and while you somehow remain half asleep you start flailing and sprinting around your cramped room. Your footsteps are so loud and rapid that they wake up your now anxious brother who is two closed doors away. That small creature is still gnawing away at your limb like pack of furious squirrels eating nuts and in your panic you start yelling as you run into your bookshelf, slamming your right elbow against it so now both arms hurt and in the darkness of your room, you proceed to ram into your bedroom door at full speed. This leaves your brother in a state of terror, who is now preparing to die, but damn it if he is going down, he is going down comfortably in his bed. You sprint out into the living room and somehow manage to turn on a light as you sprint around the couch. At this point your dad walks out expecting that after all these battle sounds, you’re fighting someone that broke into the house. Little does he know it was instead a much more lethal small animal that was assaulting you. In your state of deep primal fear you stare at him for a solid 30 seconds before you can control your body enough to speak. You chest heaves lessen in intensity as you piece together what the hell just happened.
“What happened?” he asks.
“I think my arm fell asleep,” you reply.
Just to be safe you ask if he can get his flashlight to check out your room. The only casualty are some two inch army figures that somehow got flung from the right side of your bed to underneath the left side.
Relieved you go to bed, take a test the next morning, and then piece together the night’s narrative with your family’s help because you can only vaguely remember what happened.
Don’t you hate it when that happens? Yeah, me too.