So in the middle of the night, OMS is sleeping. He's sleeping the good sleep. Enjoying it, even.
And then the dream.
He's sleeping. Still. And then he's waking up. And then he's telling himself, "Dude, go back to bed. It's Saturday." And then he's happy. Whew. Saturday. He can sleep 'til his usual wide-awake-on-a-Saturday-wake-up time of, say, 8.
But it's Tuesday. "F*ck," OMS says, now bug-eyed at 5:07 a.m. "It's Tuesday. F*ck."
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UPDATE! Minutes, nay, seconds, after posting, boy if OMS didn't spill his water all over his nightstand and floor! YAY for punching the air, repeatedly, at 7:15 in the morning!
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