Whoa, hoss. Whoa.

So we rarely have nightmares. Very rarely, as in pretty much never. Not so much with the nightmares, us.

But we woke up at 5 a.m. this morning somewhat panicked and stabbed in the chest. Our precious lungs did the whole fill up with blood thing and we were dying and we were writing notes to loved ones before we would surely black out. Then we were in the basement we don't have, naked, looking for a way to live, this, after spilling vegetables next to the motorcycle we don't have.

Huh. Nightmare.

So we figure this: Marshall and Lilly had an argument Monday night on the How I Met Your Mother about leaving notes to one another in their wills. And then last night, we watched the Smokin' Aces. We also ate more ice cream than we had in *months* and oh with the lactose intolerance.

The combination of that, plus perpetual thoughts of whether we are wasting our life, pretty much daily, had left us hellabefuddled in our dreams.

So now we're all about the living and not spilling veggies next to our sweet hog. We've decided not so much with the How I Met Your Mother and as much as we love Piven, let's not watch movies with bloodshed all over the damn place.

But we're OK, which is what really matters. Lesson learned, nightmare. Lesson learned.