You see, the mafia was after me. They tracked me down to where I was living in a quiet town with my sweet little family. They demanded my life. I was terrified. A cold sweat trickled down my back while I tried to devise a plan to escape alive - and keep my family safe at the same time. And what did my hubby do? He tried to shove me out a window so they'd have easier access to me without harming the kids.
It's always a different scenario involving either a plot to leave me (slutty girlfriends galore have paraded through my dreams), throw me out to the piranhas (Literally. I didn't want to go near a pool for a couple weeks after that one) or kill me off (Hubby's signature dish: homemade ice cream laced with poison).
Poor hubby doesn't know what to think about all these violent dreams. Especially after years of them. In reality, he's the most amazing man. My best friend. We are so in-sync, we rarely have an argument and each night, he holds my hand as we fall asleep.
Personally, I think because he's my hero in every day life, my subconscious needs to spice things up in dreamland.
Yesterday, hubby made an interesting comment though. He asked if I've written down my dreams because they'd be interesting for book plots.
I have a new goal. I want to write a whole series of books that are based off different ways my hubby has tried to kill me off. I could fill an entire bookshelf. How funny would that be? You never know where (or how) inspiration will strike.