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Last night was a strange one.

I’ve mentioned the rough relationship that I have with my subconscious in previous posts, but last night was an entirely more violent escalation in the war between reality and fancy in my sleep-addled brain.  I blame a combination of crying babies, unpleasant occurrences, and a beer right before bed.

It probably started when a good friend of mine told me about her husband’s car getting broken into.  That news was, in itself, not surprising; he has had about twelve of his vehicles stolen in the last decade.  He has no idea why car thieves seem to target him.  I suspect he inadvertently insulted one of their leaders (I picture someone like Oliver Twist’s Fagin, but greasier and wearing blue coveralls), and he has never been forgiven for his indiscretion.

I was unnerved by the thought of people prowling around outside, so I didn’t exactly knock off quickly that night.  It was close to 11:00 before I was even tired.

And then, around 12:00, Abby decided that she wasn’t loving being in her nursery all by herself.

My wife, God bless her, got up to rock her back to sleep.

Stop.  Before you start in with smarmy comments about how all babies cry at night and that’s what parenting is all about and I shouldn’t complain because your baby is colicky and cried for twelve hours a day for the first fourteen years of his life, let me remind you that my baby is perfect.  She has set a high standard for herself over these last six months.  She’s been sleeping through the night since about two months and has had a grand total of three bad nights in her entire life.  She eats well and has weathered a single cold with flying colours.  She is the greatest baby in the world.

Anyway, the lack of sleep led me to the strange world where my brain beats the bejeezus out of my psyche and leaves me to interpret the pieces.

In my dream, my town was overrun by car thieves, and I spent much of the night awake at the bedroom window armed with a BB gun (that being the most deadly weapon imaginable).  However, I fell asleep at my post and was awoken the next day by the sound of the neighbours talking outside on my front lawn.

Cars were strewn everywhere, each one of them missing pieces of panelling, engines, windows, or all four tires.  Then, in my dream, I snapped awake from what I can only guess was a dream within my dream.  I clearly remembered the dream about the destroyed cars, but I also clearly remember feeling thankful that it was all just a dream.

Until I looked outside.

The cars were even more dismantled now.  And most of them looked like they had been tossed around by King Kong, so apparently the car thieves were twenty feet tall and super-strong, as well as incredibly brash.

I went outside to talk to my neighbours (most of whom were dead celebrities for some reason) and we decided to arm ourselves with sticks.  We then prowled the streets in search of giant car-part thieves.

And then I woke up.

I was very distressed, and almost entirely sure that when I looked outside the bedroom window I would find scene of automobile carnage even worse than the one from the dream that I woke up to from my other dream.  I was also quite afraid that I had entered a never-ending loop of waking up from dreams that I was dreaming, but I’m pretty sure that this reality is really the real one.

Now I have to go deal with my half-octopus baby.  She’s climbed into the time-machine again and has puked on the lifeless corpse of H. G. Wells.

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