Sleep To Dream
I got nine hours of uninterrupted snoozing last night. It was awesome. Make-me came over, and so did Red Argyle, so there was a lot of laughter, especially over my homemade spaghetti-o’s.
Dude, seriously. If you were in the pasta aisle at Trader Joe’s and saw ring-shaped pasta, wouldn’t you immediately think “Spaghetti-o’s”? Would you not further buy a jar of sausage red sauce and make spaghetti-o’s for yourself and (possibly) your children? Would you also further refer to them as “homemade” because they don’t come from a Chef Boyardee can? I’m not being unreasonable here, yanno.
I know I’m getting into the work-in-progress because I have the urge to listen to the Postal Service over and over again. For some reason, this YA wants Classic Emo music. Unless I’m writing the djamphir Christophe, who has this regrettable taste for Herman’s Hermits, of all things. Especially I’m Onto Something Good, which has a very ugly meaning if you’re half-vampire in one of my books. Bwahahahahahaha!
Mine is an evil laugh.
There’s Serious Stuff I could be writing about, but I have to get back to work. The swelling around the fresh piercing is going down, and at this point I can’t wait for the shorter bar. Taking vities, exercising, and getting enough rest helps it heal–and it does good for the rest of me too. Go figure. Now why don’t I do that on a regular basis instead of taking care of everyone until I’m drained to the point of collapse?
It’s a mystery.
Oh, one last thing: last night I had a dream about a tree in the backyard of one of my childhood houses. It was in the back corner of a patch of wild woods on three-quarters of an acre; you had to get up on a boulder before you could get to this branch that was perfect for lounging. Across the fence and a slim greenbelt was a nursery; I always wanted to work there with the plants. It certainly would have been better than my first job at The World’s Most Misogynistic Redneck Grocery Store.
Anyway, I dreamed there was a lot of hassle and sturm and drang with a group of people I was hanging out with. So I said, “screw you guys, I’m going home.” Only we were in the house I’d lived in for a while as a child…so I went out the back door, tramped through the wet grass I’ve raked hundreds of times, made it to the back corner and shimmied up into the tree. There were tours coming through, but the branches hid me and I watched groups of people going by with a tour guide. I felt safe and comforted.
It was a nice dream, but I woke up thinking about that house, and that wasn’t so nice. But I guess the tree was always there.
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