Two years ago, I woke up in my dorm to find my roommate and several of his friends hovering over my bed, grinning like they’d just pulled off the ultimate prank. Naturally, I thought they’d sharpied a dingdong on my face. But no, they were just laughing at the strange noises I was making.

Apparently, I moan in my sleep. Now, to my knowledge, these aren’t sexual moans (and if they are, why the hell do I get pleasure from dreams about losing my teeth?). Rather, the moans are because I fail at breathing, and a quick Google search shows I’m not alone.

Sometimes, as I’m drifting off, I hear myself doing it. It’s definitely not flattering. It sounds like a zombie grunt, but only if the zombie were a camel or walrus. Yeah, picture an undead cow mooing to the tune of Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face.”

The moans also echo like the tripod foghorn sounds in the War of the Worlds remake. Imagine a raspy elderly man blowing on his hot soup: muEhhhh. That’s me.

Waking up to an audience isn’t the only downside of my sleepmoaning. I can’t nap in class without everyone knowing about it. Professors always know I’m not paying attention once they hear Christina Aguilera belting in the back of the classroom.

Once, I accidentally locked my door before bed. When the moaning started, my mom thought I’d snuck a lover through the window.

Why can’t I do something normal in my sleep, like sleepwalk or wet the bed [insert an “I Peed a Little” joke here]? Whenever I mention my sleepmoaning, my friends assume I have an illness, a mental condition, or even syphilis.

I wonder what other bizarre and seemingly sexual things I do in my sleep. I can’t wait ’til the morning I wake up in assless chaps.

Maybe I should embrace the moans and use them to become a celebrity. I mean, I could always become one of those ladies in the shampoo commercials. The only pitfall is that I must be asleep, so I’d probably drown.

Or, I could become a singer like Justin Bieber. He moans a lot in his music.

The only other moaner I can think of is Moaning Myrtle from Harry Potter, but she’s creepy as hell – a pubescent dead voyeur watching school-age boys take a dump. I’m sure I can find a better role model.