I had nightmares all morning about Jack Nicholson. Long story, but suffice to say, I woke up all knotted and tense and awful feeling.

“Meine,” I whined at Andreas after the alarm went off. “I had bad dreams all morning.”

“Yeah, I know,” Andreas said.

“You know?”

“Yeah, you woke me up talking in your sleep.”

I never ever talk in my sleep.

“Really?! What did I say?”

“You said, ‘What the FUCK?!’”

Ah yes. That fits about perfectly. You’d say the same thing if you had dreams all morning about Jack Nicholson being in a horror movie where he was a murderer covered in entrails and bandages and his face was all half burned off and looked like a oozing singed marshmellow, complete with white-tinged bile and other people’s blood dripping down his neck.