I do not sleep well.
Last night was a fan-frickin-tastic example of this, for it was fraught with feet in my ribs, pain my my back, and nightmares about fish. It is the story of the latter which I bring to you this fine morning.
I have an aquarium. This was an important part of my dream. The aquarium had relocated itself to a small beach shore contained within my screened-in back porch. I went outside to feed the fish, and realized with some dismay that one of the Raphaels had grown feet and arms and was climbing up and over the side of the tank. I cursed, and dropped to all fours to catch the fish as it ran around in the sand underneath the tank stand. Suddenly this fish was about eight inches long, and I was totally grossed out by the idea of catching it and shoving it back into the tank. I did it anyway, and as I got ahold of and muscled it up to the top of the aquarium, it turned and bit me on the hand, hard.
It was at this point that the fish began having a lucid conversation with me, in German. In my dreams I apparently speak frickin German. I had no idea, really.
I repeated this fish catching exercise three or four times, and each time the fish were bigger and scarier and much, much yuckier. There was a Moray Eel, and I really wanted to die. Tim thought it would be funny to show up at this point with a gigantic Hippofish (what?) puppet, swoop down on me from a rack above the tank; and force me to catch the sqiuggly wiggly slimy bipedal hippofish baby that he dropped from the bottom of the puppet.
My parents sat upon a loveseat behind me, watching.