The Gun Show

I had "the nightmare that wouldn't end" last night.

What's one of my greatest fears?
Aliens.
What was the subject of my dream?
Aliens.
Was I scared?
I thought I was going to suffer a heart attack!

I kept waking up... sort of sweating (terrified, I tell you), and each time I'd go back to sleep, the dream would just keep going.
How come that never happens when I'm dreaming about holding long conversations with Cristiano Ronaldo? Or when I dream that I'm watching him stretch and flex prior to his soccer match?

Talking about flexing and stretching, I have a new horrible habit I'm trying to eliminate.

I've never really suffered from that whole, narcissistic syndrome where you just have to catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror whenever you walk by it... or even your reflection from a shiny surface.
I actually do the opposite, where I look away... because I hate seeing myself. Really.
However, recently I've caught myself flexing and stretching when in front of a mirror or any reflective surface. The good thing is that I do this when at home... so the issue hasn't gotten out of hand just yet.

When I catch myself doing this embarrassing thing... I think

What the hell am I doing?
Who the hell do I think I am?
Relax, Madonna, put the gun show away!
Do you have a band-aide? Because I'm ::flex:: cuttttttttt!!

Ok, I don't say the last one... well... only as a joke to my little sister.

I'm trying my best to kick the habit... but how can you not check out your squat form when you see a full-length mirror? I only do it to better my stance... that's it.

I can already hear the neighbors:

God, first she goes out in her mismatching pajamas to feed her noisy ass dog... and now you have her doing squats in front of her sliding door... what the fuck? They didn't warn us about this before we rented this house!

To which I'd retort:

Get the fuck out my neighborhood, you fucking trashy ass Californians (not that all Californians are trashy. Just... when a Californian goes trashy, he/she goes trashy)! And take your four trailer homes with you (there's like, seven different men living with this one woman! and they're not even related)! Oh... and one more thing, NO! We don't rent this house like Mom made you believe! No one in this neighborhood does! There's a reason they're called "custom homes," pricks... and just be glad I comb my hair before I come outside... and quit smoking by my fig tree! You're polluting the tree's and Tyson's air!

Man, I hate my neighbors. Sorry about that tangent.