Nightmare on Bobrich

I have a dirty little secret: I like horror films. 


Not the ones that almost pass into the realm of pornography, but definitely psychological thrillers, some monster movies, a few slashers slashers, and a bunch of zombie flicks. As with most dirty little secrets, mine has its problems. Combined with an already over-active imagination, my appetite for horror can quickly spew yuckiness all over innocent situations. 


Like the time I came home from my job at Hardee's to find blood all over the front step.


And the front door slightly ajar.


And no movement from within.

Sleep depraved

My friends Jerry and Dan were hanging out in my cube at work one day a couple of weeks ago, and Dan's major contribution to the conversation was some aimless babbling, followed by a yawn. Jerry's major contribution?:

"Dan, you seem sleep-depraved."

That cracked me right up. I knew he meant "sleep depr-I-ved," but the flub was too good to go unremarked. It held a hallowed place on my whiteboard until just recently when I had to replace it with a draft of a workflow diagram. (Not nearly as interesting, but it is a work whiteboard.)

We spun off into sleep-depravity jokes, most of which involved hatchets and drooling on oneself and that sort of thing. But when I got to thinking about it, sleep depravity is nothing new. Take fiction and film.