Dreams…made from ether and the fluff of madness

I decided to share this little gem with everyone, mainly because I don’t generally write small entries (wordy mutha…), and because I haven’t written anything in a while. When I say that my waking mind is a fountain of randomness, I mean it.  My subconscious mind is therefore a thing to terrify, annoy, and bewilder.

My dear friend Zhaviera is here to visit for a few weeks to—as she puts it—to “blaze a lusty trail” through the state.  My other friend Beverly is…special.  I have known her longer than any non-family entity in my life and she has always had some strange platonic fascination with goats.  One of her more delectable phrases of the past is to add “…and the goat you rode to town on” to almost any sentence.

So, last night I finished listening to the audio book for The Lodger, read by Lorna Raver, who does a magnificent cockney accent as the characters speak.  If you haven’t read this book, I suggest doing so…it was written in 1913 by Marie Belloc Lowndes, a woman who lived through the Jack the Ripper scare and was inspired by the thought that someone somewhere had to know, had to know who he was.  (It’s free on Amazon for the Kindle, people.  Just DO it!)

Point is, Lorna Raver does this accent so well that it was stuck in my head when I tried to go to bed.  So, in an attempt to get that out (and to read a good book), I read the third installment of the Hunger Games, Mockingjay.  Because that heifer Suzanne Collins is such a good writer, she manages to end every damned chapter on a cliffhanger.  So, I read until my eyes informed my brain that if they were forced to process one single sentence more, they would send my sphincter a strong message to deploy and release.  (This is an exaggeration.  Please do not think that reading causes my bowels to spasm uncontrollably).

I put the book down, but not before jumping forward a few pages to see how the cliff hanger ended.  I passed out, tossed, turned, and had odd dreams.  However, my eyes were still bitter apparently, for I turned one too many times, and they sent the aforementioned defecation signal.  Bleary-eyed and half asleep, I obeyed the commands of my body, grabbing my phone on the way.

I am deeply obsessed with two games on my iPhone—The Simpsons: Tapped Out, and Hay Day.  Choosing beneficial tasks for my Springfield characters seemed too mental for me at the darkest ass crack of dawn, so I decided to jump over to Hay Day to plant a few crops, milk some cows (who seemed to be in the same predicament I was in), and collect some eggs.

I went up a level and attained the elusive Lever 32.  What does that mean?  I could finally get goats!  And goat milk!

So, I went to bed after the bathroom stuff was over and went to sleep.

My dreams were super fucked up.  All these things combined into one globular mass.  I was on the run from a killer, trying to shoot goats with a bow and arrow, but Zhaveria was trying to cook using their milk instead of water, while the goats protested in a cockney accent, and Beverly clapped her hands and giggled like a special needs child, saying, “GOOOOOOOATS!”  *clapclapclap*

Welcome to my mind.