I am a Natural Fighter

Jeff dreams of fighting. Of swimming his fists through impossibly thick air to surmount his opponent. He probably wakes up with his pillow in an omoplata. He is a pro.

I’ve been training consistently the past few weeks, and now I too dream of fighting. Usually my dreams are pretty incomprehensible, but last night the miasma was gone, revealing my subconscious determination:

I almost ran him over. He came out of nowhere. This being a dream, probably literally.

I jumped out of the car, frantically apologizing. He was pissed.

“You almost fucking hit me. Don’t worry, I can return the favor.” He was also drunk. Slurring his speech.

“Dude, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. It doesn’t need to come to this. It’s just not a good idea.”

“You sound pretty fucking confident. Do you train?”

“Huh?”

“Like MMA, fighting?”

“Uh, yeah I gu–”

“I don’t see the problem then. You probably WANT to fight me.”

I paused for a second. “Well, uh, no, not really. I mean, you’re a centaur.”

And that’s what happens when you watch Old Spice commercials. Marketing 1, Overcoming Adversity 0.

So I’m probably not a natural after all. But in my defense, I woke up in something that sorta resembled a sprawl, and I had put my own arm to sleep.