Sweet Dreams Aren’t Made of This

So, last night, I had a well, um…a disturbing dream.

I was at my boyfriend’s house, who doesn’t actually exist in real life…and if he did actually exist in real life, I probably wouldn’t date him, because he owned pit bulls…aaand he allowed them to sleep in bed with us.

Yeah, three of those guys.

So there we were, lying in bed, among an island of four legged ferocity, and I’m all trying to drift off to sleep, but I can’t because the bejeezus is in me—and it’s scared crapless of these dogs.

Eventually, I somehow manage.

Except, I wake up in the middle of the night, to find that one of these little land piranhas is laying on top of me, with his warm jaw swathing my bare abdomen.

He’s asleep. I’m obviously WIDE awake now.

I lay as still as possible and contemplate how long it’ll be before I die from holding my breath. I mean, if I move at all, I may accidentally wake Kujo’s less affable cousin and send him into attack mode. They’re pretty much ALWAYS on, right? So, there I lay, as rigid as a virgin on prom night.

I turn my head ever so slightly to see the outline of The BF…facing in the opposite direction. Bastard.

Yeah, I’m screwed.

My poor body is starting to realize that I’ve cut off its air supply, and it is NOT happy. It will only be a matter of seconds before I either pass out, or my body wins and I begin gasping for air. Either way, like I said, I realize I’m screwed.

I wished I would have just passed out.

Instead, my body wins—and I’m proven right about the whole attack mode thing.

I start gasping for air.

The dog, startled, latches onto my bare abdomen and apparently thinks it’s in a pie eating contest. Robyn pie. I’m screaming bloody murder (quite literally), meanwhile, The BF jumps up and turns on a light and starts trying to pull the beast off of me.

Except, this pup clearly has no intentions of getting up from the table until the whistle is blown, he’s scarfed his last bite of pie, and is holding the winners ribbon in his little blood-sodden clawed paw.

I look down at the little guy…whipping his head back and forth, with my stomach squishing between his teeth like jellybeans. Are those my small intestines? Yep. Gross.

Somehow, I have the wherewithal, whilst being eaten alive, to do what? Well what else? Naturally, I grab my phone, snap a picture and Instagram my demise…except, I never get to upload it…because… I couldn’t decide on a filter.

That’s what I get for being indecisive.

And then…well, then that’s where the dream ends and I wake up….and my hand (aka, the deadly pitbull) is just within the inside of the waistband of my yoga (aka pajama) pants, flush against my abdomen.

The moral of this story is: don’t watch movies with dog attacks in them before bed—and keep your hands out of your yoga pants.