Dreams

I am forced to interrupt my regularly scheduled Tuesday bullshit to deal with the dreams I had the other night.

Actually first, an explanation. I've been sick with the flu or the plague or something, while stuffed full of familial stress - and in the midst of all of this, I forgot to refill my anti-depressant. Not sure how many days I missed, but enough that vertigo set in and the fact that I was able to have a nightsful of effed up dreams without the aid of melatonin or Valerian root.

Ahem. Grum! *cough*

Firstly, I was dating a homeless man. The details of it are fuzzy at this point, but we must have been - god only knows - napping in vestibules and sneaking into people's basements to eat sandwiches. I have no idea how to be a hobo. All I know is that I was in a card store with my sister, hunkered down by the stationery like the apocalypse was upon us, telling her about my new totally bearded boyfriend, and how I'd been dating him for awhile, but we weren't having sex at all, which was ... somehow better than the alternative. I'm definitely sure.

Then it gets really, really weird.

I'm hanging out with of all fucking people Brody Jenner - because I must have been Lauren fucking Conrad or something. And yeah, fuck you, I watched The Hills. I'd watch it again. Bring on a marathon of it. I've got snacks.

Okay, so ... I'm cooling out with Brody for-fucks-sake Jenner in his beach front, open concept bachelor pad. His hair is all curly, and we have a fish. It's not an ordinary fish, though. It was like ... you know the ghosts from Pac Man?

These assholes.

Yeah, so, it was the orange one, Clyde. Imagine that guy as a fish. Brody killmenow Jenner walks in with this asshole of a fish in a mason jar, all like, "Hey, we have a fish now. No big whoop." And I'm all, "Uh, are there any instructions? I have no idea what to even ... why is this fish staring at me so hard?"

The fish was pleading with his eyeballs for me to remove the top of the mason jar. Being the scientific sort I am, I realized he probably needed air. You know, to live. I took the lid off, with much trepidation, and that little orange fucker started getting curious. Kept lifting up over the lip of the jar, trying to see what was around him, with his big, giant eyes. It was terrifying.

Next thing I knew, he fell out. Splat on the gaw damned over-priced counter top. Helpless. Fish-like. Orange. Dumb. I screeched - shrieked even - for Brody oh-come-on-dude Jenner to stuff that adorably hideous fish back into the jar from whence he came.

I have no good ending for this, so I looked down and found ten dollars. I did not spend it on a jerkface fish. I'm smarter than that.

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