Last night the rabbits invaded my dreams, and I have no idea why.
At one point in my dream world I looked down at the book in my hands and saw it was Bunnicula. Then I looked over at the bookshelves in the library where I was hanging out. All the books on the shelves were about rabbits. Every one except for one, which was a coffee table art book type thing. It featured the photographs of a native Nashvillian man who took his infant son to London and shot photos of him in front of various British landmarks–the way people do with those ceramic lawn gnomes.
Later on I was in my childhood bedroom pawing through dresser and desk drawers in search of something. Everything I saw had bunnies on it. There were bookmarks with rabbits saying quippy things about reading, wrapping papers with ditsy prints of fluffy white bunnies, pajama tops with Peter Cottontail.
Even later on I was at a junk dealers looking at old innertubes to go tubing with and saw a stuffed rabbit mounted on the windshield of an old car.
I’m not pregnant–far from it–and have absolutely no idea why about a million bunnies invaded my sleep. I’m a little paranoid now.
You’ve got me wanting to suck the juice out of vegetables.