...dream of effective sheep?
Ugh. Well, I just had an unbelievably disturbing dream that's woken me up quite effectively. I dreamt that I had flown home to L.A. for some reason, but now it was time for me to return to Ireland. It was nighttime; my father and I were walking home so I could pack and catch my flight. (We actually are the only people in L.A. who ever walk anywhere.) Crossing the parking lot behind the Staples at the end of our block, I started to sniffle and cry a bit, sad to be going. We passed this big guy, swinging a plastic Coke bottle. And apparently, he thought my tears were really hilarious, because he decided to thunk me over the head with it.
This infuriated me. I spun at him, still crying a bit, and screamed, "Oh my God, what the fuck is your problem?" I saw that he was a little strange looking: he had a huge, distended head and very long arms. In the dream this barely registered. "Oh, boo hoo," he said, mocking me, waving his fists. He laughed. "Boo hoo."
Now even though my brain (in the dream, too) was screaming at me not to antagonize this guy, I couldn't lay off. My father, likewise, just stood there, occasionally saying things like, "That isn't nice," or "Now that's just rude" as the hostilities escalated. There were apparently an endless supply of plastic soda bottles at hand: the guy and I kept whacking each other with them as we shouted insults. His were all vaguely better than mine; none of my blows really connected. Still, all of this was still rather comical, farcical. Then the guy pulled a Bic ballpoint pen out of his pocket--one of the cheap plastic ones that sometimes sell 10 for a dollar. He uncapped it really slowly, grinning broadly, small mouth in large head. Then slowly, delicately--he rammed the pen into my father's eye socket.
There was a loud, wet pop.
Then I had a glass Coke bottle and I was smashing the guy over the head with it. It wouldn't break. It wouldn't break. My father was clutching his face and saying things like, "Seriously, I am in quite a lot of pain here," but I just couldn't stop ineffectively bashing at this guy's humongous head. He just laughed at me.
And then I woke up. Really hard and really fast. Yeah, not so much with the sleep after that one.
I mean, I'm pretty sure that the dream's mostly about having a lot of impotent rage, because...I have a lot of impotent rage. But the really disturbing thing is: this is not the first eyeball-gouging dream I've had. Except in the earlier one, it was me doing the gouging. To a guy in a labcoat, in a long, white hallway. With a chopstick.
Pop.
Aaaaaaanyway, I'm up now, and after I have my toast and tea (did J. Alfred dream of eyeball-gouging, I wonder?), I really am going to work on my paper. Honest. But first I'm going to take a stab (oh, badness) at editing one of the seven fics, 'cause I think I finished it last night. It doesn't contain any pointy objects, thank God. Although I guess that rules out any dart battles. And, y'know, any porn. Damn.
This infuriated me. I spun at him, still crying a bit, and screamed, "Oh my God, what the fuck is your problem?" I saw that he was a little strange looking: he had a huge, distended head and very long arms. In the dream this barely registered. "Oh, boo hoo," he said, mocking me, waving his fists. He laughed. "Boo hoo."
Now even though my brain (in the dream, too) was screaming at me not to antagonize this guy, I couldn't lay off. My father, likewise, just stood there, occasionally saying things like, "That isn't nice," or "Now that's just rude" as the hostilities escalated. There were apparently an endless supply of plastic soda bottles at hand: the guy and I kept whacking each other with them as we shouted insults. His were all vaguely better than mine; none of my blows really connected. Still, all of this was still rather comical, farcical. Then the guy pulled a Bic ballpoint pen out of his pocket--one of the cheap plastic ones that sometimes sell 10 for a dollar. He uncapped it really slowly, grinning broadly, small mouth in large head. Then slowly, delicately--he rammed the pen into my father's eye socket.
There was a loud, wet pop.
Then I had a glass Coke bottle and I was smashing the guy over the head with it. It wouldn't break. It wouldn't break. My father was clutching his face and saying things like, "Seriously, I am in quite a lot of pain here," but I just couldn't stop ineffectively bashing at this guy's humongous head. He just laughed at me.
And then I woke up. Really hard and really fast. Yeah, not so much with the sleep after that one.
I mean, I'm pretty sure that the dream's mostly about having a lot of impotent rage, because...I have a lot of impotent rage. But the really disturbing thing is: this is not the first eyeball-gouging dream I've had. Except in the earlier one, it was me doing the gouging. To a guy in a labcoat, in a long, white hallway. With a chopstick.
Pop.
Aaaaaaanyway, I'm up now, and after I have my toast and tea (did J. Alfred dream of eyeball-gouging, I wonder?), I really am going to work on my paper. Honest. But first I'm going to take a stab (oh, badness) at editing one of the seven fics, 'cause I think I finished it last night. It doesn't contain any pointy objects, thank God. Although I guess that rules out any dart battles. And, y'know, any porn. Damn.