And Here’s Where It Gets Weird...

Why’s this happening? Why am I being chased through a bayou? How did I end up ankle-deep in a foreboding swamp that is inundated with what first appears to be blood but upon closer inspection, is actually salsa? And no matter how hard I try; little forward progress is made. My legs aren’t responding to my panicked demands. Lifting my right foot, I see an oversized boot. Where are my Sketchers?

Growing concerned, I glance behind me. A shrouded figure seemingly floats unimpeded over the red quagmire. Pending doom sets in as the gap closes. Looking for help, I recognize my eighth-grade Spanish teacher among the crowd of gawkers to my left. Why is Mrs. Hernandez shaking her head while holding a gato in her arms? I try screaming for help but can’t formulate words. The ominous presence now looms over me. I frantically gesture for mercy then cower as an arm extends towards my head.

Waking up, I’m sweating. My legs are cocooned in the top sheet. Lying there, reality comes into focus. I take a moment to slow my heart rate. Sooooo, now let’s add enchiladas to the long list of food I can’t eat after 9 p.m.