Like most people, I enjoy sleeping in on Sunday mornings.
On a good Sunday, I’ll be able to maintain a connection with my bed until at least 10:00 a.m. I’ll drift and dream, snooze and snore, and ultimately snap into consciousness feeling like a million bucks. The good night’s sleep will usually send me out running before I hit the shower, allowing me to accomplish my exercise for the day before I’ve even had breakfast.
On a bad Sunday, I’ll wake up at 7:00 and just stare at the ceiling, contemplating when I should give in to the world of awake and drag my ass out of bed. On mornings like these, I’ll stumble over to the couch and plant myself in front of the TV set, where I’ll scroll through the usual garbage of weekend programming as I decide on whether I should a) go back to bed, b) shower, or c) run, so as not to personify the epic fail.
This latest edition of Sunday morning was destined for greatness. I was in the midst of a fantastic dream, which either had me saving the world in renegade fashion (i.e. fly-running — which is where you start running before you inexplicably take off and start flying — and beating up bad guys with a Louisville Slugger) or about to get laid. I can’t remember the exact context of the dream I was having, but these are the only two types of dreams that I consider to be quote-unquote fantastic.
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