I got worms

I wake up, either from an afternoon nap gone awry or way too early in the morning. On my way to the bathroom, I encounter my male roommate in the hallway. He's wearing boxers and a t-shirt, which does nothing for my inability to gage the time of day because he's so damn peppy and in my face. (I've never met this person in real life, which is a symptom of dreaming I always find creepy. Who are these people?)

"What's up with your face?" he says.

I go to a mirror and find that each and every one of the pores in my face is oozing a wiggly, threadlike worm. I sit still to make sure they're moving and not some overnight curse of oncoming middle age. Sure enough, they're moving the way worms and Stevie Wonder do. I turn back to my roommate, who has moved on to something else in our happy homestead but is still available for shouting at from another room.

"It's cool," I say. "They wash right off."

I get in the shower and, sure enough, they do.

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