I've said it before. Sleep is out to get me. As much as I love it, the feeling doesn't seem to be mutual, and it continually plots against me. Case in point: one night freshman year when Blondie got a little more than she bargained for from her new roommate*.
Now you all know that freshman year of college is an awkward time to begin with. You move away from your entire life at home only to be cramped into a ten by ten box with a person you've never met before**. If this doesn't make you self conscious, the fact that you have no idea what you're like when you're sleeping should. Think about it. Unless someone in your house tells you, you have no idea if you snore, talk, thrash, or sleepwalk. Because obviously you can't tell yourself. Because you're sleeping. When you combine the initial move-in awkwardness with the unknown, what you have is a time bomb waiting to go off. Or a midnight beating waiting to happen, as it were.
Though our dorm room was actually a good size, the position of our furniture put my and Blondie's beds side by side. Probably about a foot apart. Perrrrfect. So one night, this happened:
*Me, asleep, thrashing around as usual. Rolling over* THWACK!
Blondie: (sleepy confusion) What the hell?
Me: (still sleeping) MMmfmm.
Blondie: Really?
Yea, I smacked her in the head. Violently. In my sleep. Which I got to hear about in the morning. If that's not a good way to build a lasting friendship, then I don't know what is. Really.
We ended up being roommates for all of college, and while this incident never quite repeated itself, there were several unconscious*** conversations that went on. Because we're cool like that. And Sleep likes to make me look like an idiot.
*Me, of course.
**And since you're in such a tiny space, you are forced to quickly get used to the idea of changing in front of a stranger. Creepy.
*** Read: Sleeping conversations. Yes. It happens.
Edit: Thank heavens I don't have this superpower. That would just be baaaaad.
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