How do we know school is about to start?
Everyone knows about that time between asleep and awake-- when you're vaguely aware that you may be dreaming but you're not quite sure because the dream feels to real but on the other hand, the warm softness of your bed has equal veracity as the dream environment.
That happened to me in triplicate this morning. Multidimensional Katt sensations were as follows:
Bed. Cooooooozy bed. Dun wanna go to practice lab tomorrow and be out of my PJs. Screw IVs and injections and staple removal. So many fuzzy blankets and the mattress has just been turned over so it is firm and waaaaaaaarm and a rain of meteors pummelled Smallville for the second time in as many decades. People screamed as they ran for shelter but none as heart-wrenchingly as the man who now knelt in the wreckage of the Kent farmhouse, the man Lois nearly tripped over. He was naked, of course. Lois was good at running into naked men. He covered his eyes, not his ding-a-ling-- which, y'know, good for him for being comfortable in his ski-- and yelling out the name Jean. Jean still lad comatose in her corner of the medbay, oblivious to Scott and Remy's presence. For once, Scott's attention wasn't on Jean; it was on Remy, sitting across from him, shoulders shaking, head in his hands, talking so softly he had to hunched down, too. Martha straightened out of her hunched position and stared at the other senator square in the eye. They would not win. They would NOT let her feel like something scraped off of a boot. She was Martha Clark Kent, daughter of the best damned corporate lawyer in the Midwest, wife to the most upright man born, mother to an alien with a huge destiny before him and the best goddamn politician this country would ever see! Did they think that just because she came from a small town, she was stupid? Just let them try to push her around. Roy would never be pushed around again. He'd never be dropped. HE dropped people, HE pushed THEM. He'd beat this goddamn addiction if it killed him and it really fucking would because he couldn't breathe. He was suffocating, like a hundred blankets wound around his head and body. Mmmm, blankets are so---ARGH! I have to drive my sister NOW?
Yep. That's Writer!Muse up to his old tricks. *sigh*
That happened to me in triplicate this morning. Multidimensional Katt sensations were as follows:
Bed. Cooooooozy bed. Dun wanna go to practice lab tomorrow and be out of my PJs. Screw IVs and injections and staple removal. So many fuzzy blankets and the mattress has just been turned over so it is firm and waaaaaaaarm and a rain of meteors pummelled Smallville for the second time in as many decades. People screamed as they ran for shelter but none as heart-wrenchingly as the man who now knelt in the wreckage of the Kent farmhouse, the man Lois nearly tripped over. He was naked, of course. Lois was good at running into naked men. He covered his eyes, not his ding-a-ling-- which, y'know, good for him for being comfortable in his ski-- and yelling out the name Jean. Jean still lad comatose in her corner of the medbay, oblivious to Scott and Remy's presence. For once, Scott's attention wasn't on Jean; it was on Remy, sitting across from him, shoulders shaking, head in his hands, talking so softly he had to hunched down, too. Martha straightened out of her hunched position and stared at the other senator square in the eye. They would not win. They would NOT let her feel like something scraped off of a boot. She was Martha Clark Kent, daughter of the best damned corporate lawyer in the Midwest, wife to the most upright man born, mother to an alien with a huge destiny before him and the best goddamn politician this country would ever see! Did they think that just because she came from a small town, she was stupid? Just let them try to push her around. Roy would never be pushed around again. He'd never be dropped. HE dropped people, HE pushed THEM. He'd beat this goddamn addiction if it killed him and it really fucking would because he couldn't breathe. He was suffocating, like a hundred blankets wound around his head and body. Mmmm, blankets are so---ARGH! I have to drive my sister NOW?
Yep. That's Writer!Muse up to his old tricks. *sigh*