I was married.

In my dream, I mean. I was married, except to who I can’t remember. I don’t think I ever saw her.

Or maybe I wasn’t married. Maybe I was just living with that girl.

How quaint.

In any case, it was freakin’ domestic, man. Like, her parents were there. And they were doing laundry. My laundry. Why would my wife’s parents be doing my laundry, huh? Isn’t there something seriously wrong with that picture?

Obviously my dream-self didn’t think so. He was totally oblivious to the awkwardness of it all. In fact, I think he liked it. Typical.

You probably think there’s some hidden plot twist coming up, like how my wife went all Glenn Close and Fatal Attractions on me, but actually, this was a dream entirely devoid of any point.

Except maybe to show me that married life isn’t all that bad. It’s nice. It’s warm and cuddly. Like, y’know, those Nestle Tea commercials where everybody huddles around a fireplace to cook smores and open Christmas presents.

It was like the perfect family. Her mom was real nice and obviously a great cook. And I think we had sausages for breakfast. Or was it lunch?

I bet it was brunch, because that’s what perfect families do: they have sausages for brunch as a family.

And you know the best part?

I was happy. Happy doing nothing. Happy living a domestic life.

Happy to talk to my wife’s mom while she did the laundry.

My laundry.

What the hell?