The instructions were very simple.

Do not sleep on the second floor of a house.
Do not sleep in a house with weapons.
Hide all the knives.

Hide all the knives. I failed so miserably at that direction that I actually slept with a knife inside my room.

Let me explain.

Kev and I have been cooking quite a bit recently, and every time I reached for my favorite knife it was either dirty, in the dishwasher, or hidden in the wrong drawer or knife receptacle (because although we’ve lived in our house for almost four months, we’re still finding the ‘right’ place for a lot of our things). One day, at Burlington Coat Factory, I came across an exact replica of my favorite knife for a ridiculous price. Ridiculous! I picked it up right away, remarked to the cashier that they were clearly more than just great coats, she obviously hated me and all I stood for, I came home, and then promptly forgot about the knife.

And I left the knife sitting on my dresser.

My sleep doctor and his mustache would have been so disappointed.

Flash forward to this Sunday, when I casually woke up and went to open the bedroom door. In my half-sleep stupor (which is a great name for a band, write that down later) I looked down and noticed something wrapped in plastic on my dresser. I cursed, said a few things to the knife I didn’t mean, and I realized that for at least three weeks I have been blantantly disobeying the most simplest of orders, and have been putting everyone’s life in danger because I am clearly too dumb to realize I have been harboring a weapon in the room and it’s all my fault.

Let me catch my breath here.

I live on the second floor of our house. I have two windows, one that overlooks the backyard and one that overlooks the driveway and is directly over a pergola with many sharp branches. I don’t have any weapons in the house, that I know of, but I have not been hiding the kitchen knives or utensils either. I have a hard time finding the pizza cutter awake, but who knows what can happen at night.

Perhaps the thing that makes me most upset is that I could have seriously injured Kevin in my sleep. The ways you can cut someone are endless, and likewise, the dreams that I have can range from a friendly game of monopoly with friends, to hunting down wild ferrets in the rolling hills of California. Last week I had a dream that I was told I had only five seconds to live, and then I had to keep repeating those five seconds until I lived them properly. I am not Tom Cruise or Michael Bay. I should not be having those types of dreams.

To be fair to everyone, and myself, the knife was encased in such thick plastic that sleep-me probably could have never opened it. But I also never thought I could fit the whole upper part of my body into a pillow case, so you can never say never.

The lesson learned here? Hide the freaking knives. If you’re going to take chances and live on the second floor of the building, the least you can do is protect yourself from nighttime stabbings.