I’ll never be able to sleep now
I don’t get snakes. Snakes as pets, anyway. No, I don’t get snakes at all. They’re creepy and I hate them. I don’t care if they’re big or small, poisonous or harmless, with giant fangs or no fangs. I really REALLY don’t like snakes. Had a nightmare about them just the other night, and I’m probably doomed to have another one tonight. I was driving home from work, and I saw a guy start to cross the street near the shopping center about a mile and a half from my house. He was holding his son’s hand, and I saw what looked like a scarf or something draped across his shoulders. That deserved a second look in 90-degree heat anyway, and that’s when I realized it wasn’t a scarf. It was a snake. A big one. Like a boa constrictor or a python or something crazy like that. It was HUGE. Bigger around than my arms. (I was going to say it was bigger around than my thigh, but sadly, I don’t think that’s the case.) I don’t know if I can live here anymore. That snake totally sensed my fear and is going to come slithering over here tonight to kill me. A mile and a half is nothing to a big snake like that, right? Oh, nightmares. My book isn’t going to be much help as a distraction, either. I love Ray Bradbury, but these stories just aren’t grabbing me. Is it wrong of me to put it down unfinished and look for something more engrossing? Nah. Being distracted from the snakes that are out to get me is more important than any hangup I have about not finishing a book.