I really had peed myself. Luckily, the rest was just a dream. Luckily no one was there to see that I had peed myself. Fifth grade was bad enough, no need to revisit. It was still dark out, but I was lying on the floor on my nasty old wool rug, breathing quickly and inhaling the little dusty, fuzzy wooly things that I’d neglected to vacuum. They made me itch all over. My face was carpeted with V-8, the can now horizontal and emptied next to my head, the rust-colored pool slowly seeping into the fibers.

The last time I saw it, it was on my coffee table.

The last time I saw me, I was on the couch, urine free.

It’s unclear how I ended up on the floor, but it’s hard to argue with the current set of facts.

As I hoisted myself up and threw my dank clothes into the sink, I did my best to reconstruct my semi-somnambulant escapades of the night. Couch? Yes. Angry letter to the government? Yes. Massive quantities of alcohol and/or prescription drugs? Nope. So what then? No clue.

I drug myself into the shower and purposefully didn’t turn on the hot water. My skin tightened in response to the freezing water, and I rinsed the veggie cocktail and dust bunnies from my face. I turned the water off 30 seconds later and got out and got dressed. I’ll deal with my pee-pants later.

I was cleaned of the filth, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the dream. God, how fucked up is that? I prefer the one where I’m the guest of honor at the Playboy Mansion and I receive the “Lifetime Achievement Award.” Unlike that one, this one makes me never want to go to sleep again. Freddy Krueger would be pissed.

I wanted to talk to someone about it before it started to fade, but who could I tell? How do you have a serious conversation with someone while simultaneously trying to convince them that you aren’t a complete loon? Anticipating the response I’d get if I told anyone about it (“sounds like you’re afraid of going back to work!” Or, “sounds like you’re afraid of zombies!”), I opted to do what I usually do with emotions, bury them deep down inside where they belong. I’ll deal with those later, too.

Resolute with inaction, I sat back down on my couch and turned on the TV. After six months with nothing but basic-basic cable, I just upgraded last week to standard cable so I would get AMC to watch “The Walking Dead.” Evaluating the current state of things, that’s probably not the best thing for me to watch before bed anymore. I may never fall asleep again.

Flipping around, I caught the scene in “Zombieland” where the Wal-Mart brand Michael Cera was extolling the virtues of proper cardiovascular training. I’m pretty impressionable, and taking this as a sign that I’ll never escape this whole zombie thing unless I get off my couch, I decided to go for a run.

It wasn’t yet 7 a.m. As I laced up my shoes, I realized I hadn’t been out of the house in four days. Please don’t tell my mom, she’d be worried.

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