Last night was a normal night. I came home, looked in the fridge, and decided I didn't want leftover steak or pasta. I tossed a bunch of chicken, red pepper, onion, jalapenos, and spices into a frying pan and make some fajitas.



(Note to self: next time you add in four times more meat than the recipe calls for, scale the vegetable proportions appropriately.)

I watched some TV while I had supper, kept track of the Oilers game on the 'net (7-1 over Phoenix! w00t!), played GTA: San Andreas, and jumped on the exercise bike and pumped out ten miles. I watched an episode of Batman: TAS on the bike, another after I took a shower.

Then I went to bed. Usually after a workout and hot shower, I'm ready to collapse. But tonight, I couldn't get to bed. Alright...I wouldn't call it insomnia, but it did take me an hour to fall asleep when it usually takes me ten minutes.

I blame Loxy; I must have caught her insomnia by proxy.

Anyways, while I was laying in bed, I had a fantasy of mine since Jr. High go through my mind again and again, each time adding in more details to it. It goes something like this:

I'm playing for the Oilers, and we're at home in game seven of the Stanley Cup finals. Our goalie is way out of position. The puck makes it back to the point, where someone known for a hard shot gets ready to one-time it in the empty net. (In the orignal fantasy back in '95, this was Al Iafrate) I drop to my knees in an attempt to block the shot.

The puck plows me in the jaw / teeth / whatever at over 100mph (not the upper face, since I'm a big supporter of wearing a visor). I'm filled with adrenaline, so I immediately get up, ignoring the pain and blood pouring from my mouth. I skate up with the puck, get past the defenceman with a pass to myself off the boards, and go on a breakaway.

I come down the left side. As I break past the faceoff dots in the offensive zone, I freeze for a second to make the goalie commit, then spin 180 degrees counterclockwise and put a backhand in the top right corner.

I then immediately pass out from the pain and crash hard into the boards, silencing the euphoric home-team crowd while the goal horn is sounding and music is being pumped into the building. When I regain consciousness, I'm on the red carpet and am being presented the Conn Smythe trophy.

To non-Canadians: Sex fantasies are nothing compared to hockey ones.