As in, I kind of refuse to. I even catch myself engaging in these mental battles with my bladder. As if it were a nagging, impetuous, I dunno, CAT or something. Like, FUCK OFF dude, I'm WRITING here.
This is why I'm on medication. You know, partly.
But what I really want to tell you is that my insane, incessant dreams about celebrities are not abating. While The Hub probably has a theory about "that damn shit" I read on the Internet, I like to think it's...well, because of the, eh, meds.
And while I'm not sure how keen I am on this fabricated dream-weaving that's going on, it's kind of a fucking riot.I wasn't sure the little dream elves could top the magic of my Jersey Shore stint. But, they way can. And did:
Dream #1: I'm hanging out in a nice residence with lots of people. I'm guessing it's a party, but I'm kind of sequestered. This seems appropriate. Anyway, Sandra Bullock walks in eventually, and while we're chatting like sisters, half of my brain is all, "OMG...is this real? Because YOU NEED TO TWEET IT." (The other half rolls its eyes.) That's when Sandra Bullock suggested a threesome in the shower with midgets.
Right. No, really. She did. Except, the math part of the threesome thing wasn't adding up because there were suddenly lots of people in the room. But I shook the thought. Or I gave up. Math is hard.
Well, when I was all, "Um...this feels...illegal?" She rolls her eyes and acts all, "It was a JOKE, you freakshow." So she leaves with some guy--a taller one--and I suddenly am scared for my life. Again, this seems appropriate.
The next thing I know, I'm waking up in bed, The Hub sleeping next to me. Our bed, however, is in Bullock's bathroom. I have this pain in my right thigh and I'm scared to move. The Hub wakes up, certain not to make much noise, and removes an IV from my leg. (My leg?) I follow the tubing to the plastic bag to make sure it's not an IV rufie drip or some shit. That's when fucking Bullock walks in and I nearly wet myself. She's suddenly as terrifying as that crazy head-changing witch from Return to Oz (the scariest movie on THE PLANET, thankyouverymuch).
I think I see that The Hub sits up...ready to spring to my defense, but then the air in the room shifts a bit. Bullock lets out a sigh and walks over to my bedside. She feels my head with one hand and and takes my pulse with the other.
"How are you feeling?" She points to my sore thigh. "I wanted to make sure you weren't dehydrated this morning."
[Fin.] (I know. Resolution is a sonofabitch.)
Dream #2: I was at an evening formal, outdoor cocktail or dinner event of some sort. There was a mansion behind us, so I guess it was pretty posh. And some twinkle lights. I may have been under-dressed. In fact, I think I might have been the nanny. Anyway, I found myself at a round, formally set table making conversation with strangers. A bit bored, I look to my right.
Behold my new suitors:
Well, I say suitors, but it was really just Eddie Murphy (circa 1984) smiling and telling me his name repeatedly. I think he said he wanted to be friends. I was more concerned with the fact that Steve Martin was having trouble speaking. Or maybe he couldn't? Hard to decipher his smirk in such lighting.
I spent much of the time trying to place 1984-Eddie's face, thinking...I'm pretty sure you're an asshole, somehow. Like a fucking psychic or something.
Maybe I was there as the entertainment.
PS: I've just finished watching a marathon of Breaking Bad. Wish me luck with tonight's subconscious time as a meth head.