Okay, so I know that I can be a drama queen sometimes. And yes, sometimes I exaggerate things in my mind and they become my new and more interesting reality. But I’m telling you, my husband wants me dead. How do I know this, you ask? Well let me tell you…
For the first half of the year my husband worked the midnight shift. I had the bed all to myself each night. There was no snoring, no cover snatching, and nobody shoving his big toe up my ass. It was sleep heaven, just me and my trusty old wooden baseball bat. For what? In case a bad guy came into my home and tried to steal all of my five dollars while I was sleeping. OR in case of a midnight baseball game with the neighbors. You never know, it could happen.
Anyway, during this second half of the year my husband is on the day shift, so now I have to share my bed. I’m not a big fan of sharing because I’m selfish. Apparently my husband is also not a fan of sharing, and I know this because the very first night he was back in my bed he tried to kill me.
I was sleeping peacefully when all of a sudden I felt like there was no oxygen. I opened my eyes to find that I had been buried alive. What the hell is going on? What’s so heavy? I have to pee. With great difficulty I began to move out from my grave. My husband “in his sleep” deposited all the blankets on top of me, mountain style. On top of all the blankets were several pillows. He likes to sleep on his side with a pillow wedged against his chest. He spoons the pillows. Well each time he would roll over he would deposit the pillow on top of me “in his sleep” and then he’d roll back over and grab the next pillow and repeat. By the end of the night I had like five pillows on top of me. Why do I have so many damn pillows on this bed? He claims he had no idea he had buried me, but I’m sleeping with one eye open. I’m just saying.