I like my imagination. For the most part. It comes up with lovely ideas. Twists. Turns. All kinds of fun.
But when it becomes overactive or taps into my subconsiousness...the party ends.
We were watching Animal Planet something or other last night. The show was about people who got too close to wild animals and lived to tell about it. (I added the last part. Because, you know, some people won't be telling the tale.)
There were grizzlies, polar bears, lions, snakes, and sharks. Pretty, pretty, pretty, shudder, shudder. Oh. And some kind of freaky crocodile. It was kind of green/yellow.
And it wasn't a bad show. This one man actually shot pictures of a shark DOWN ITS THROAT. (Yeah. I think that deserves caps.)
The guy wanted to get pictures, but the shark was not feeling it or something. The shark opens its mouth, and I swear to you, I could see its tonsils. The camera actually shot inside it. I thought that was neat.
Apparently my imagination had other ideas. Oh, did I mention that I'm very susceptible like that? You can beat me over the head with something, and I haven't a clue. But small things seem to crawl under my skin.
It's bedtime. I'm all tucked. And, of course, I'm awake until after midnight because I have sleeping issues. But when I DO fall asleep, I wish I was awake.
I dreamt (had the nightmare from hell) that I was in my house that had sharks and crocodiles under the floors. And then there were rectangular holes cut from the floor where people could actually SEE the water.
And I have this handy little device that helps me track the evil spawns of water so I knew where NOT to be. I'm turning it on. Moving it around. And then I walk over to this rectangular hole (Cue the "She's an idiot" music) and push a button that says "Track" on it. A bright, red beam shines into the water. And at first all I see is seaweed. But I KNOW something is in there. (Note to self: Set alarm earlier) So I proceed to keep pushing the button and all of a sudden, the scariest, most full of teeth, jacked-up shark I've ever SEEN moves forward.
(Small note of self-congratulation: I didn't wet the bed)
Why do I DO this to myself?
And since I feel so comfortable with y'all, let me freely admit that I woke up at 4:33 am and had to go to the bathroom. I was so scared that my feet would sink right through the floor that I waited around forty-five minutes for my irrational fear to fade. I thought about throwing the cat down first, just to check. All for the greater good. No one from the ASPCA need contact me.
Is this a writer's affliction? I know Stephen King says he hates to go down to the basement because he just KNOWS there's a velociraptor down there with its claws outstretched, waiting for him.
If you're so inclined, let me know. I hate to be alone in my neurosis.
7 months ago