Badass, my ass.

A few nights ago, I was trying desperately to fall asleep, losing a battle with insomnia. Marc, in the meantime, was snoring contentedly next to me, having drifted off about five seconds after his head hit the pillow. I was contemplating what to do next...go downstairs and read? t.p. the neighbors house? shop online? when Marc rolled towards me and said, with some conviction, "Remember that time I killed a deer in Wichita? Let's go back there and drink some bourbon!"

Now, there are several things wrong with those two sentences, but the first thing I said in my exhausted state was "But you don't LIKE bourbon!" He didn't respond and I realized that he was dead asleep and that the oblique comments had come from somewhere deep inside his subconscious.

We were talking the following afternoon and I told Marc about the above, expecting him to flesh out the story of Bambi's demise in further detail, but he had no idea what dream that statement was adjoined to. (He's never been to Wichita, either, so who knows where that came from. It's a fun noun to say, though. Try it! Bet you just sounded it out...)

He said that his entire night had been filled with violent dreams wherein he was shooting all sorts of people and watching others light themselves on fire. I believe there was even a helicopter chase. Neat! This is what he gets for talking guns with my dad over dinner.

He went on, becoming more animated as he recalled details, and I thought to myself "Sweet god! I'm married to a homicidal maniac." Marc simultaneously let out with "I'm a freaking American BADASS!!!"

Perhaps we'll take that bourbon after all. Or at least I will. I'm scared to go to bed, now. Hold me.