They say you never die in your dreams. If you’re falling from some unknown height, quickly descending towards the pavement, you’ll wake up just before your face meets the street.

This is never the case for me. I die in my dream all the time, and not nice polite deaths. Its inventive murder. If you can name it, it’s most likely killed me at some point.

Dogs and other things with teeth, check! Zombies, yup! Knife wielding murdous buttlers, twice actually. I not only do I die, but then I go to an afterlife, and that afterlife is always work. Soul sucking, 9-to-5 cubicle jobs.

I’m either some kind of caseworker for the living, a warehouse technician, or even some kind of security guard for purgatory. It varies but it’s usually, awfully boring.

Even in my dreams, my life is mundane.