Hitler rang my doorbell

Now, I’m not usually one to write about dreams; I generally think they’re pretty boring. Some of the worst conversations I’ve ever had started out when I was trapped in a car with a friend, and they say, “So, I had the weirdest dream last night!” The obligatory, “Oh, really!? What happened??” ensues, and I take a mental nap for the next 20 minutes. Hypocritically enough, I am about to do this exact same thing, except we’re not stuck in a car together, so feel free to exit at any point.

It’s 1:20 AM and I’ve just woken up, heart pounding covered in sweat, by what may have been THE most fucked up dream I’ve ever had. You be the judge.

So…the doorbell rings. I peer through that creepy little peephole (does anyone else ever feel like they’re offering their eyeball up to unnecessary risk when doing this?? Perhaps I was a mobster in my former life: food for thought). “Who is it already,” you ask? Ah, well, obviously it’s one of my best friends Kelly, a guy I recently went on a few dates with (I henceforth christen thee ‘Diesel’, an unidentified sidekick, and Hitler. Yes, Hitler rang my doorbell.

It was all there, from his prickish fancy boots, the belt stamped with “Gott mit uns” and what was undoubtedly the most unfortunate display of facial hair since Rip Van Winkle awoke from his 20-year siesta. And I KNOW what he wanted: one of the new-born kittens that was hiding under my bed.

“What the fuuuuckkk,” you think. Coincidence: me too. It was one of those dream sequences where your brain throws you a curveball. The current scene was now entirely dependent upon the existence of kittens under my bed, the birthing of which would remain elusive to me, but they were there; and Hitler wanted one.

At some point around now, Hitler took a proverbial backseat, and Diesel took center stage along with his real-life best friend/roommate- henceforward: ‘The Trigger’. Now, Diesel was pissed. I believe it was at this point his countenance turned in to some strange amalgamation akin to, how I would imagine the fusion of 2-faces burned bottom layer and his Joker mask. As this point, I believe my heart rate took a distinct leap. The asshole was also equipped with a machete.

Luckily, I was prepared with my trusty Glock (no, I do not in fact own anything of this sort) and I emptied a few clips that seemed to serve no purpose other than to irritate machete-packin’ Diesel. At the very moment, when I was sure he was going to wield that blade high and slice me to pieces, I awoke. I was flailing more violently than when you wake up after a fun (and gin)-filled night at bars, crack an eye and don’t recognize the sheets on the bed you’ve found yourself in. I threw on the light, panting, and grabbed my journal and pencil to excise this event from my mind. It’s now 1:53. I stop. I smile.

Hah. At least Hitler never got his kitten.