Every night, the scissors, six-inch ruler, and letter-opener on my desk climb out of their "caddy", tiptoe to the desk's edge, shimmy down one of its legs, and creep along their bellies to my bedside. The scissors stands up, spreads its blades for balance, and then hoists the others onto the bed, where they lie down and extend themselves to grab his two heads and pull him up.

"I'm the ruler of the universe!" the ruler always whispers. You'd think the other two wouldn't laugh every time, but they do. So I wake up, thwarting their plans, whatever they are.