nobody here but us chickens
I never realized before this year how vulnerable it feels to live alone. The fact that I am particularly skilled at freaking myself out doesn't exactly improve the situation. I seriously check my closet for panty thiefs before I go to bed every night (it's deep, OK? Someone could totally hide in there). Things that go "bump" in the night are madmen scaling my balcony. I see danger lurking in innocent shadows.
One night I woke up to find a man sitting, Indian-style, watching me sleep. My breath stopped and so did my heart, I think -- and then I screamed. The man didn't move.
Turns out it was my chair. I was apparently sleepy (read: paranoid) enough to mistake my desk chair and the dirty laundry I had thrown on it for Mr. Sexual Deviant. Not a joke.
I think I have a problem.
One night I woke up to find a man sitting, Indian-style, watching me sleep. My breath stopped and so did my heart, I think -- and then I screamed. The man didn't move.
Turns out it was my chair. I was apparently sleepy (read: paranoid) enough to mistake my desk chair and the dirty laundry I had thrown on it for Mr. Sexual Deviant. Not a joke.
I think I have a problem.