A thousand foam-covered typewriters

Last night I dreamed I'd been bitten by a rabid monkey. At the end of the dream, I had to lock myself in a room full of the little bastards in order to be eaten alive, thus preventing myself from becoming a rabid danger to those around me (and neatly disposing of my body -- eco-conscious!). I had this dream over and over: each time it ended with me running into the monkey room, turning the lock (to prevent my friends from rescuing me), and slooowly turning around to face the roomful of desperate, foamy little monkey heads.

I relate this here because I have not had such a gruesome, interesting death in a dream for some time, and I woke up feeling rather proud of it.

Also because there is nothing quite like being utterly certain that you are about to be devoured alive by rabid monkeys, only to open your eyes and discover that you get to go to the book sale instead.