So, I slept last night—really slept. It's been awhile—oh, to greet the day without that dull throb in the back of your head or the churn in your stomach! Masterful! There are "some" who profess that South Park is the gateway to modern cool, but two minutes of wry observation during my channel surf last night sent me into a state of Rip Van Winkle sloth that surpassed even the imaginative depth of Washington Irving himself.

I moved a supple arm above my head and stretched—and then I noticed something not quite right. In the black blind of the room, I felt a thick patch of hair against my chest. "The coffee drink I had last night wasn't so very strong...?" I said a little uncertainly...my voice turning up there at the end. Could I have slept through hair growth? That seems rather far-fetched and over-the-top....and not only that, but it was beyond-belief, contrary-to-reason, and [insert idiom here].

I reached toward the lamp to investigate when something stirred. Does chest hair stir? I've always shaved mine in the past, so I scarcely know. In an illuminated glow, I gasped. A lump. Can you get chest hernias? I mean visible ones? Seems like there's a lot of bone and skeletal barricade against that, but nonetheless, I found myself remembering my super-set of push-ups yesterday. I had a tendonitis flare up afterwards, and if you combine that with the hernia, it spells bad news for my push-up regimen.

Then it started gyrating in a way that reminded me of that one video clip of Boris Yeltsin dancing, and all at once, I had bigger problems than the continuance of my fitness program: I had an antique Russian on my chest.

A low hum began to emerge, in sync with the gyrations, and as I wondered at the sanity derived from a decent night's sleep, I realized that the hum didn't sound Russian-accented at all. A bushy orange tail snaked out from my collar, and my suspicions of feline involvement began to take root. I groaned in a disgusted-frustrated way, alerting the devil that I was indeed wake. The rest of his body emerged, stepping in painful pinpoints of weight along my ribcage, and I cursed into the stillness and seethed at the absolute indecency and invasion of this fixation my aunts' cats seem to have with my breasts.