Mr Tickle and the Very Public Apology

Remember sleep overs? Back in the day with your pink jammies and your BFFs?
Oh… and midnight snacks?
Well, I never quite got the midnight snacks part. I remember waking up one morning and staring at my BFF in horror. “What happened to your cheek?” I asked shocked at the vast red hand print over her face.
“You should know,” she said, “You did it.”
Apparently, I don’t like being woken up from REM sleep very much.
I had hoped I had left this violent streak in my past, but this morning I find myself in the dog box for a similar discretion. I had on my earphones and was deep into White Light Guided Mediation from Dick Sutphen. My body was on the earthly plane, but the rest of me was floating happily somewhere in the ether.
Suddenly and without warning I was jolted back awake, sat bolt upright and began a frantic fight with the earphone wires while trying to make sense of the hell was going on.
My husband had touched my stomach -specifically that inch or two of skin just above my hip. The feeling is akin to having 2000 volts of electricity shot through my system.
I have no idea why that little patch of nerve endings renders me insensible, but last night it sent me jackknifing across the bed. I ended up somehow throwing my elbow back just as my spouse lent forward, smashing his glasses into little bitty pieces and probably leaving him with a black eye.
Needless to say I slept alone last night. I maintain that although I landed the killing blow, it wasn’t pre-meditated and therefore falls in the realm of a horrible misunderstanding and terrible accident.
I then picked up a spade and began to dig myself a trench, or a final resting place. I just can’t help it, no matter what I say I make it worse, so I’m writing this blog knowing that as I’ll be sent to Coventry anyway, I may as well record it for prosperity.
I am so sorry I hit you last night. I really didn’t mean to, it was an accident.
I hope you are alright.
I love you, please forgive me.
PS: The moral of the story
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