Why do I do this to myself? Why?
Why do I insist on reading creepy murder mysteries right before bed?
As if that weren't enough, the cat has suddenly decided she'd going to be a mouser after all. So she's chasing mice through the kitchen, and the noise wakes Jesse up.
Jesse, as you know, sleeps right beside my bed.
So the cat is chasing mice through the kitchen, and the noise wakes Jesse up and he barks, and that wakes me up with a start and my heart is all beating really fast and everything, and I'm all scared and stuff...
That's one of the few times I really do wish I had a man in the bed with me.
But I don't have a man in the bed with me. So I clutch Felix
tighter and pull the covers up over my head and vow to read only romances from now on.
That vow lasts for about half a chapter, and I think, "bleh", and I'm done with romances. Soon, another creepy murder mystery finds itself on my nightstand and the whole cycle starts all over again.
Why do I do this to myself?