I need to stop having such gruesome dreams

Just before getting up this morning, I dreamed that Sean had me order him a comic book in which all superheroes from all worlds and dimensions, both DC and Marvel, came together in a climactic battle against a brilliant villain who turned out to be a famous science fiction writer, and each died violently. I didn’t want to read it, but of course somehow I ended up doing so. Except when I did, it played out like a TV show rather than a comic.

I remember Wonder Woman was crushed in the hands of a giant, a Clark Kent from another dimension who’d taken another superhero name and costume was tricked into drowning himself, and an unknown superhero was caught in a wire that twisted around him and sawed him in two.

When my snooze alarm went off, I was glad to force myself awake to escape the deaths.

Something similar happened the other day when I slept in, except the dream I had then was far more vivid and disturbing. A crazed man with a baby strapped to his stomach–was the baby alive?–was hijacking a bus, and anytime people responded in ways he didn’t like, he’d freak out and wave a huge knife around and pull bloody body parts from children he’d dismembered out of a big burlap sack.