In the middle of the night I roll over and my leg muscle seizes. Wednesday-Thursday-Friday, Batman! A horse named Charlie stomped on my calf and killed it dead. (All the ugly grimaces. Luckily, it’s dark. Tragically, I’m crying.)
While I’m awake and stretching Charlie away, I might as well hope and stress about everything. But it’s the middle of the night, and although my leg is dead and my heart is galloping hard, my mind is fogged up and I can’t remember if the thing I’m excited about smells like worry or hope. And if it’s hope, when will it happen? And if it doesn’t happen, how will I ever sleep again? I follow the squeaky mouse down the twisty spiral. Can’t get out of this tilt-a-whirl half-asleep nightmare, compliments of jerkface Charlie.
I try to think of something else. For example: I miss everyone I love, I saw a deer so small it was composed half of bobbed white tail, Band-aids don’t stick when you move them from your ankle to your knee, and if I eat salad for another consecutive day, just call me Fiver and point me toward the warren.
Wait, what was I worried about? Oh, yeah. THAT. It’ll all end, with a splat or popping corks, by this time tomorrow. So Charlie, vacate the bed or I’ll magic you into a glue bottle.
FYI: SPLAT. No need to worry anymore.