Face. It's all I'm confronted with when I make my frustrated flip over. And over. And over. My nightie is twisted up around my legs, my underwear is bothering for whatever inexplicable reason, and my back is screaming at me that this isn't working! And now, as I straighten myself out and flip over toward the middle, I knock my nose into Joe's fist (why is it laying up there like that?) and realize my face is a hair away from his.
I feel crazed. I don't ever have a problem sleeping, which Joe usually begrudges me, but lately I've been up at 1 and 2 a.m. And, pardon the pun, but I'm getting so tired of it! At around 3:45 a.m., I gave in and went downstairs only to be confronted with our cat, Shakes, digging around under the table. I looked behind me and realized it was a huge wood roach that he was torturing to death. I have an irrational fear of wood roaches. It's the long attenae, the wings, the utter nastiness.
Could the night get any worse?! The answer is yes.
Shakes slayed the roach (which I decided to leave for Joe to pick up in the morning), and he decided to come join me on the recliner. I always get love from him when Joe isn't looking; he's really Joe's baby. He then proceeded to rub his wet little roachy lips all over me in his quest for comfort! I decided I needed to go back upstairs.
I settled in, tried to breathe and relax, flipped over, and there it was again. FACE.
What a craptastic night.