A Mysterious Number Called Me in the Middle of the Night
The most scary thing in life for me is when you are fast asleep, dreaming about sitting on the head of a giraffe and you wonder if you should slide down the gigantic neck with in both hands full shopping bags as handicap and suddenly you hear an insane ringing of a drunk telephone in your ears.
In such a manner, it instantly makes you sit up scaring the crap out of you. Totally without breathe left and half dizzy sitting between the sheets panicking about what’s going on and guessing what not-wanna-hear-scenario the phone caller will tell you.
Still sleep drunk I search for my phone, but I’m getting tangled up in my hair while poking husband’s eye out. It took me a full eight minutes (or less) to dug under the blankets, knacking hubbie’s toe on the way, to find the phone being travelled to the bottom part.
Like a total catweazel I wriggled myself from under the covers again; still half sleep drunk I push some buttons in the hope to answer the stupid phone
And now we of course all know the next scenario: the ringing stopped. What?! Couldn’t you wait until I got my stupid phone you ass****; it’s the middle of the night: why do you expect me to get a phone that fast!
There I sat after being disturbed while going through a world tour, battling fierce kangaroos in Australia, trying to salsa dance in the streets of Havana and surviving a daredevil encounter with a grumpy lion in the Serengeti, only to drag the phone from under the blankets and stare in confusion at my phone ‘recents’ like a lost penguin at a ballroom dance competition.
After lying awake practicing about who the H it was, I fantasized all creepy stories possible, from my future self warning me about never, under any circumstances, opening the third drawer in the guest bathroom and a cursed voicemail from Area 51’s HR department to my cat’s alter ego trying to warn me from another realm for an hour and a half.
My brain’s ability to concoct absurdities could power an entire reality show where nothing makes sense, time loops every Wednesday and the only rule is: don’t trust anyone in a pineapple suit.
Then I decided to take a look in my phone and scrolled to all sides upside down, left and right, all possibilities.
After a long half an hour I was quite awake by the whole midnight cosmic prank call from the multiverse. I decided to let it rest and contiue with my voyage in dreamland chasing whatever flying non, wearing a jar of pickles on her head, was in front of me.
Because who needs permission to lose their last remaining grip on normal when Sister Picklehead’s theology is clearly your new caught friend and as such expect that from now on pickles will solve all tricks on earth. At least the ones in your life.
But it seemed I was such awake, I suddenly was so bright to start searching in the recent calls again, because earlier I was in a hurry and was basically scrolling with my eyelids I think.
That was the moment I connected the final brain cell: the mysterious number wasn’t a ghost, a confused alien or time-traveling telemarketer: it was my husband.
Yes, the man who lives in my house, the one who once was the most annoying boy in our class and lives at my house for 37 years, the one who is still annoying and always knows better and somehow loses his keys exactly 17 times a-day and also manages to lose his keys inside his own pocket.
I don’t know how on earth this happened, but while laying sleeping beside me, he somehow unlocked his phone, bypassed Face ID, navigated to my name in his contacts and called me.
All in his sleep. Big eyes here. And even bigger here.
He’s secretly a somnambulant tech wizard.
Or I’ve been unknowingly living with a snoring telepathic hacker for 36 years.
Which means one of two things:
Either way, I woke up to my own phone ringing… from the man sleeping next to me and I’ve never questioned reality more.
In case you were wondering what Sister Picklehead would look like. GPT is apparently friends with her:
