I woke up last night with a stabbing pain in my neck. It was terrible. Terrible enough to wake me from my three hours of slumber. It was not a dull ache, not a pinch, not a grinding pain, not a twist. It was a stabbing pain.
I reached back to see why my neck was hurting, perhaps to rub that area that felt like it was being skewered with a knitting needle, much like my lower leg sometimes feels like it is being penetrated by a raptor claw. Yes, while laying on my left side, propped on three pillows, snoozing so peacefully only moments before, I reached back with my right hand, to the nape of my neck, and felt...
THE POINTY FINGER OF FARMER H!
Yeah. He was apparently sawing logs into his breather under the quilt, while resting his hand, namely his index finger sharpened to a point pointier than a finishing nail, against the back of my neck. Even my lovely lady mullet could not protect me from the pointed probing of Farmer H. Funny how to look at his hands, one would see short stubby fingers, not the entity battering-ramming me in the darkness, an ET the Extraterrestrial index finger honed to a needle-sharp end.
Sometimes I long for the days when Farmer H chugged half a bottle of Nyquil each night to prevent a cough. Even the raptor claw slept.