Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Dreams, No. 4


Second night in a row where vivid dreams have dominated the day after.

Around 2:15 this morning, I was dragging my toga climbinb a long, wide concrete staircase as quickly as I could, running away from an old silver-haired man in a toga.  Brandishing a dirk that would leave me dead.

Despite having twenty fewer years on me, the bastard caught up to me, and raised his arm to drive the knife into my chest and kill me.

I balled my fist and swung viciously at his head, yelling. I thrashed to escape his grasp on my shoulder [show-dler].

Men who looked suspiciously like Roman senators were killing themselves in a useless attempt to keep from being killed.  You see, their time was up.  And they had no need to kill me, except to be mean and to show that they were mean.

The recipient of the blows was, unfortunately, my girly.  She and the mini-cat were awoken from a sound sleep by a crazed screamer punching my girly's head.  Me.

It was not a good scene.

She assured me that I'd "just boxed [her] ears," and that no real harm had been done.  But I clearly had scared her, and had scared myself..

All in all, I would have preferred to be babysitting Sean Lennon.

I hope all's well that ends well, but I can't help but fear that my girly will be nervous from here on out.

Until these dreams subside, I know I will be. . . .

Oh, yeah -- to top it off, as I fell back asleep, a goddamned stink bug landed on my ear, causing me to leap from the bed and thrash again.

If you live in WhoAmUs's lost icefleau, you may not have encountered these little fuckers.  They're the scourge of the East Coast.

Them and Michael Vick

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