Hands up if you had a dream about a flying chicken last night. Well I did, and that’s irrelevant.
I just recently put a new set of sheets on my bed, and was SO ready to turn in for the night. There I was, just about to enter an altered state of consciousness, alpha waves turning to theta waves when I realised. My sheets were a squeaky nightmare.
With every minuscule movement, they would squeak. Need a drink of water? SQUEAK. Want to roll over? SQEAKITY-SQUEAK. Blink? SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEAK. And don’t even try to get out of bed. They were the noisiest sheets in the history of sheets. Ugh. I was frustrated. I was tired. I was contemplating just lying face down on the floor for the rest of the night. How on earth was I expected to get to sleep with these stupid squeaky hospital-bed sheets?
It was like the sheets and the bed posts had formulated a malicious agenda – in which they would utilise the force of friction to drive me to insanity.
By about 1:58am I gave up the urge to burn the covers and instead began oscillating wildly (mostly because I had learnt the word that evening before climbing into the Creaky Bed of Hell and wanted to tell someone that I knew how to oscillate). (–If I’m using the word wrong, please don’t burst my bubble?)
It’s possible that the squeaks were the source of my chicken dream. I may have mistaken them for clucking.
So what did I do about it, you ask? Nothing, actually. I’m sitting on my bed right now, wriggling my hips whenever I forget the purpose of my paragraph. “Oh yeah. It’s THAT annoying.”