Generally speaking when I have dreams that bad and vivid it's for one of two reasons
1: Snow. Changes in air pressure apparently affect my brain function.
2: Vagsplosion.
Today it's snow, which is slightly annoying as I was waiting on a vagsplode to take these aching tits from me. At least my dreams featured a talking pig, even if it was guilt-tripping me every five minutes and talking about pee a lot.
Slightly different meme I stole from kat_lair: First line (I took this to mean paragraph rather than sentence - although sometimes first sentence = first whole paragraph) of fic written each month.
January
It isn't as if Cat forgets easily.
February
It was an inhospitably cold winter that welcomed us that year, waiting at October's gates with a greedy smirk and claws outstretched to a steady stream of unfortunate orphans and destitutes, nipping at the heels of even the best-kept households and chilling their maids to clumsy fingers. One could scarcely take the short walk to the grocer's, I am informed, without one's whiskers freezing to one's lips, leaving one quite incapable of speech on arriving at one's destination. Many shopkeepers started keeping a skewer loaded with plain scraps of paper for the use of the temporarily mute, although it is a mystery how they contrived to receive orders from the city's numerous illiterates.
March
Watson was of course terribly alarmed when he came back to 221B Baker street to find his companion seemingly lifeless on the hearthrug.
April
Andy Hurley is an American. He moved to Geneva for various reasons, he says, one of which is the firearms laws, and the other of which, Mat’s since discovered, is because Andy-Pandy-Panda-Bear is not terribly popular with the good people of the towns he’s tried to set up communes in. It is unlikely he’s going to be graciously received by the Swiss, who are in Mat’s experience unenthused by hippies and downright hostile to the practice of veganism, especially in the Francophone areas, but for the time being Mr Hurley the Radical seems content to subsidize his relentless publishing of pamphlets and his borderline fetish for automatic weapons by taking Christophe’s money. And, well. Mat’s of the opinion that everyone (apart from him) should work for their living.
May
When Patrick catches their conversation he’s bemused, at first. They obviously hate each other; Mat has made no secret of how badly he wishes his older brother would take a long walk off a short pier, and from the press opportunity earlier in the day and Ryland’s expressions and body language throughout, it’s clear the feeling is mutual. But there they are in the kitchen, baring their teeth at each other in some strange hybrid of threats and flirting.
June
Arnold, Khushkhu and Brody all suffered skin-breaking - that is, blood-drawing - injuries at the jaws of this palpably crazed woman. Brody claimed that the most disturbing feature of her attack was, aside from her seeming "off"-ness which he refused to ascribe to what caused her to launch herself at him, the near-silence in which she undertook the assault.
[Slight cheat as I don't think I actually posted anything besides fragments of this]
July
While other non-governmental organisations concerned with the continued order of the universe as it stood might still have baulked at the idea of holding any kind of briefing meeting in a strip club, none of them would have been especially surprised to learn that Theta Temp Team were receiving their mission brief in a Sloan Genital Bar. The Time Agency's field agents enjoyed (or laboured under) an entirely deserved reputation for being among the most debauched "officials" in the universe.
August
She repeated them back into the phone and more or less felt Suchin rolling her eyes with a hurricane-force sigh held back by the skin of her teeth. "No. Say it with me-"
[First line of that particular installment, not of the book]
September
The afternoon light is as thick and syrupy as the contents of a hive, buzzing only with the distant voices on someone else's radio, and Eames is stretched across the end of his bed like a housecat with a bad back and a worse hangover. The curtains do not stir their lazy cotton selves to admit whatever breeze is skulking around outside, and the air-conditioning is far too feeble to make any headway against the sweat glands of an overweight Englishman.
October
Growing accustomed to the logic and safeties of dreams, where the objective is to announce himself and do the psychological equivalent of talking himself into a subject's knickers, Eames has come to regard real life as a cosy and simple place where the man at the newsagent is merely a man rather than a gun-packing projection.
November
Okay, I don’t think this is going to be easy for me to tell or for you to listen to - not that I’m expecting you to think this tarnishes my otherwise spotless reputation, I’m not delusional, but it’s still not the nice, neat, simple story I bet you’re looking for, either. And because I’m still alive, I don’t really know how it ends.
December
“Are you aware that you’re singing?” Paul asks, looking up from his pile of envelopes, having stamped relentlessly at each one with the rubber seal as efficiently as a policeman on a rioter’s face.
2: Vagsplosion.
Today it's snow, which is slightly annoying as I was waiting on a vagsplode to take these aching tits from me. At least my dreams featured a talking pig, even if it was guilt-tripping me every five minutes and talking about pee a lot.
Slightly different meme I stole from kat_lair: First line (I took this to mean paragraph rather than sentence - although sometimes first sentence = first whole paragraph) of fic written each month.
January
It isn't as if Cat forgets easily.
February
It was an inhospitably cold winter that welcomed us that year, waiting at October's gates with a greedy smirk and claws outstretched to a steady stream of unfortunate orphans and destitutes, nipping at the heels of even the best-kept households and chilling their maids to clumsy fingers. One could scarcely take the short walk to the grocer's, I am informed, without one's whiskers freezing to one's lips, leaving one quite incapable of speech on arriving at one's destination. Many shopkeepers started keeping a skewer loaded with plain scraps of paper for the use of the temporarily mute, although it is a mystery how they contrived to receive orders from the city's numerous illiterates.
March
Watson was of course terribly alarmed when he came back to 221B Baker street to find his companion seemingly lifeless on the hearthrug.
April
Andy Hurley is an American. He moved to Geneva for various reasons, he says, one of which is the firearms laws, and the other of which, Mat’s since discovered, is because Andy-Pandy-Panda-Bear is not terribly popular with the good people of the towns he’s tried to set up communes in. It is unlikely he’s going to be graciously received by the Swiss, who are in Mat’s experience unenthused by hippies and downright hostile to the practice of veganism, especially in the Francophone areas, but for the time being Mr Hurley the Radical seems content to subsidize his relentless publishing of pamphlets and his borderline fetish for automatic weapons by taking Christophe’s money. And, well. Mat’s of the opinion that everyone (apart from him) should work for their living.
May
When Patrick catches their conversation he’s bemused, at first. They obviously hate each other; Mat has made no secret of how badly he wishes his older brother would take a long walk off a short pier, and from the press opportunity earlier in the day and Ryland’s expressions and body language throughout, it’s clear the feeling is mutual. But there they are in the kitchen, baring their teeth at each other in some strange hybrid of threats and flirting.
June
Arnold, Khushkhu and Brody all suffered skin-breaking - that is, blood-drawing - injuries at the jaws of this palpably crazed woman. Brody claimed that the most disturbing feature of her attack was, aside from her seeming "off"-ness which he refused to ascribe to what caused her to launch herself at him, the near-silence in which she undertook the assault.
[Slight cheat as I don't think I actually posted anything besides fragments of this]
July
While other non-governmental organisations concerned with the continued order of the universe as it stood might still have baulked at the idea of holding any kind of briefing meeting in a strip club, none of them would have been especially surprised to learn that Theta Temp Team were receiving their mission brief in a Sloan Genital Bar. The Time Agency's field agents enjoyed (or laboured under) an entirely deserved reputation for being among the most debauched "officials" in the universe.
August
She repeated them back into the phone and more or less felt Suchin rolling her eyes with a hurricane-force sigh held back by the skin of her teeth. "No. Say it with me-"
[First line of that particular installment, not of the book]
September
The afternoon light is as thick and syrupy as the contents of a hive, buzzing only with the distant voices on someone else's radio, and Eames is stretched across the end of his bed like a housecat with a bad back and a worse hangover. The curtains do not stir their lazy cotton selves to admit whatever breeze is skulking around outside, and the air-conditioning is far too feeble to make any headway against the sweat glands of an overweight Englishman.
October
Growing accustomed to the logic and safeties of dreams, where the objective is to announce himself and do the psychological equivalent of talking himself into a subject's knickers, Eames has come to regard real life as a cosy and simple place where the man at the newsagent is merely a man rather than a gun-packing projection.
November
Okay, I don’t think this is going to be easy for me to tell or for you to listen to - not that I’m expecting you to think this tarnishes my otherwise spotless reputation, I’m not delusional, but it’s still not the nice, neat, simple story I bet you’re looking for, either. And because I’m still alive, I don’t really know how it ends.
December
“Are you aware that you’re singing?” Paul asks, looking up from his pile of envelopes, having stamped relentlessly at each one with the rubber seal as efficiently as a policeman on a rioter’s face.