Passion and Ponies

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My eyes suddenly jerk open when I feel the subtle shaking of my bed. For a minute, my sleep-addled brain wonders if we’re having an earthquake and panic sets in. Then I remember I live in Ohio and the house is probably not preparing to crumble down around me. As my eyes adjust to the darkness in my childhood bedroom, I listen intently for sounds of heavy breathing or the distinct metallic clang of a knife sharpening, certain the shaking of my bed is a not-so-stealthy axe murderer preparing to slit my throat.

What? That could totally happen. Some dude could have broken into my parent’s home and now he’s sitting on the edge of my bed, sharpening his giant knife.

I hold my breath in fear. I begin to slowly turn my head and prepare to come face-to-face with a homicidal maniac when something kicks the back of my leg with the force of a two-by-four.

“Ouch! Son of a bitch!” I shout as I quickly flop over in bed. Unfortunately, I don’t come face-to-face with a killer. What I do find in my bed next to me is much worse.

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