Legos, Fruit Ninja, and Too Much Walking Dead

Even my nightmares are jacked up.

I know I've shared my crazy dreams with you before, but last night, I had a nightmare.

I had just finished The Walking Dead's latest episode. I love me some Daryl Dixon, even though he looks to me like he would smell so badly my eyes would water.  And homeboy desperately needs to wash and cut that hair.   A sexy squint will only get you so far.   Soap will take you a lot farther in my book.

I also love me some Michonne and her Crazy Katana of Catastrophe.    For those who don't know, katana is a fancy word for a long, sword-ish like weapon.   I am sure that it is a great and honorable weapon from somewhere in the Pacific, but mainly to me it looks like a slender sword perfect for killing zombies and looking like a badass while you're slinging it around.


Hi-ya.


I even love me some zombies, because you never know what they're going to look like.  And with this show, you never know in what creative way they're going to be destroyed.  

The Walking Dead is pretty graphic, filled with zombie guts and gore, and every single Sunday night after watching it I dream of zombies.  My dreams are never nightmares though; they just feature zombies in some way.

Until this week.  This week was different.

In my dream, I was an elementary school teacher.

A nightmare for sure, right?

I kid. I kid.

Maybe.

Anyway, there I was at my desk teaching first or second grade, judging by the size of the kiddos and their desks,  surrounded by red, yellow, bright blue, crayons, and the ABCs.

Legos were on the floor. Paste was on the table.  Rounded scissors were in little hands when suddenly I heard the unmistakable ring of a katana being drawn.  Then I heard the swish of the blade and someone screaming,  "Fruit Ninja!" and then a thud.

A maniac was in the school, slicing people like fruit and bellowing the name of a video game.  

People began to run and scream, trying to find refuge.   As I was escaping through a hallway, I found a sink with a little cabinet beneath it. Miraculously, in that way that only dreams can do, there were no pipes beneath the sink, and I scurried beneath it, as the swinging katana and "Fruit Ninja" cries came closer.

Here is where I found out what a bitch bad person I truly am.   I feel like I'm going to hell for even dreaming this.

A little boy about kindergarten age came by.  I could just barely see his hazel eyes and freckled nose through the crack of the door.

"Is there enough room for me?"

"Nope. Sorry, " I called and looked at the empty space where my feet were.

The little boys shoulders drooped, and he slowly ambled away.

That's right.   I turned dream kindergartner away in my nightmare landscape while a crazed video game-playing lunatic was on the loose slicing, dicing, and julienne-ing through the school.

Because I am an awful, terrible person in my dreams.

 In real life, I'm rather amazing, though.  Just sayin'.

So, in my dream, through my little peep hole, I watched the children rushing by, listened to the continual rings of the katana followed by the screams of "Fruit Ninja" and then the answering thuds.  In my nightmare, I chastised myself for not giving him a safe place, but I stayed right where I was.

Then the maniac came closer.  I saw his feet.  His sword  was covered in grape goo and strawberry sludge as I watched the  Fruit Ninja maniac slice someone and move past my hiding place.

And then he turned....

And  my alarm clock went off.

Thank you, tiny baby Jesus.

As though my waking hours aren't weird enough, now I'm dreaming about Legos, Fruit Ninja, and weapons that I'm sure are illegal in 57 states.  

 Try typing all that dream into a dream interpreter website.

For just one day, I want to be normal.  

*sigh*

Itching Like a Man on a Fuzzy Tree

I have tables in my classrooms instead of desks.   Usually I love them, except....

There I was, watching my class work quietly.  Enjoying my super-teacher status as all of them were engaged and actively writing.    Suddenly, one of my students started playing with something on the table.   The student beside her leaned closer and started looking and giggling.   The little boy at the end of the table was soon distracted and he, too, was looking at whatever was on the table.  

I quickly walked over, "Hey guys.  What's going on?  What are we looking at?"

The boy looked up at me with a grin, "It's a baby roach.  Isn't it cute?"

Three things here.

One.... it wasn't a baby roach.

Two... no way in hell that thing was cute.

Because, number three, it was a louse.

A. Louse.

LOUSE.

As in the singular for lice.  

As in crawling across my table.

As in that thing was looking for a new wig to crawl in to.  God, please, don't let one have found their way into my hair.

I quickly made a face, and said, "Oh!  We definitely don't want THAT in here!"   And I killed it.    With a thousand pounds of pressure and shiver up my spine.   The kids never wiser.

I'm sorry.  I'd write more but I've got to go take a shower and wash my hair again for the seventh time.

In gasoline.

And napalm.