Random Crap I Dream About When I’m Sick…

I am sick & tired of catching every little bug or whatever that is floating around.

I swear, these things are contagious through the computer or phone anymore.  I can’t seem to skip one.  Loud hacking cough?  Why yes, I’ll have that.  Rumbly, grumbly stomach?  Certainly!  Splitting headache?  Funny you should ask…I’ve not had THAT lately.  Appetite?  No thanks, I’ll pass.  I need to lose some lbs anyway.  Sleep?  Well, 18 hours isn’t enough, so yes, I’ll take more.  Runny nose?  Why not, since I have everything else.  All of the above (plus a little puky time) for the small child?  Indeed…it’s no fun to suffer alone.

All of which leads to some really strange dreams (for me).  Yowza!  I’ve dreamed about living (sort of part time) in India, but not getting completely moved there before we have to relocate again. This time to some frozen tundra near the North Pole.  Nope, no name.  Oh, and we have to go into Witness Protection.  I don’t know why, but unsavory people are after us, so it’s undercover to some place with no name.  By the way, don’t forget to change birthdates, because that’s how most people get discovered (and killed)…they forget to change birthdates.  Stop using your real names…NOW.

Back to the apartment in India (actually on the edge of India, overlooking some city that is never quiet):  Gotta get a shower.  There are two bathrooms in the apartment…one really nice, full of mirrors & glass (WHY?), but I can’t use that one.  I’m in the other room, where the bathroom is out on the balcony, and you can see in from the city at certain times.  So I have to make sure that the time I need to use it is a time when the walls are not translucent.  Oh, and did I mention that all this time I am naked, which would be embarrassing if anyone outside were to see, but apparently dealing with those inside the apartment is…um…ducky?

Moving on…we’ve abandoned India, and now I’m living in an apartment with a homeless woman.  Apparently we are roommates.  She’s been able to find a job, and a thrift store where she can get a huge bag of clothing for free if she comes at a certain time and shops from a certain rack.  No, I can’t get that same perk…the proprietor doesn’t like the fact that I found one blouse that needed to be rehung properly on the hanger, and she took it from me and said I couldn’t even buy it.  No longer for sale.  Why?  Because I offended her by straightening it on the hanger…which apparently showed that it was in better shape and now worth more money, which I can’t pay to buy it because I fixed it.  WTH?  Of course, now I am the one with the job, the one paying the rent, the one cleaning up the cigarette butts from the cracks in the cement (What??), the one dealing furniture placement (which apparently can not be changed), the one dealing with a baby (What??) and trying to buy groceries at the little grocery owned by the apartment complex, which is perpetually out of milk.  Why?  But I can’t move out, and I can’t kick out the deadbeat roommate.

And then there are the really nice Rolls Royce’s parked down on the next block…so cool we (Phil & I) are drooling over them, and he gets in one and starts it up.  I’m terrified we’ll get caught, although that doesn’t stop me from looking at the other one, which suddenly rolls down the curb, across the street, and into the mess of whatever is over there.  I have to go retrieve it, and pull it like a lawnmower back to the parking space before the owner arrives.  Just in the nick of time, too (sigh).  Owner comes and goes, and once again we’re admiring the cars a little too closely.  I’m afraid to touch them, just in case one decides to joy ride across the road again…

Then jump to…

The gang assassinations on the big field next to the main road in Florida.  Not sure which gangs, but we’re the good guys.  And we’re losing.  Badly!  A bunch of us are now waiting (under guard) to be assassinated.  Or executed.  I’m scared.  Very scared, not of dying, but of it hurting to die.  Because I’m afraid it’s going to be slow…like slitting my throat and bleeding out.  My brother is there too…and we’re both going to be killed, only we have to wait through the execution of every other person on our side…one at a time.  I am face down on the ground, injured, hands bound behind me.  But…since we have to wait through the other executions, this gives us time to talk, and to settle how we’re going to go out.  No screaming.  No crying.  No fear.  Only asking if it can be done simultaneously so that neither of us has to watch the other die.

Apparently this is met with some resistance.  Apparently the point is to require one to witness the other…maximize the fear, and (hopefully) cause an emotional breakdown.  Begging not to be killed is desired.  We don’t do that, and in asking to be executed together, we learn that we will be shot, which will be quick…painless.  A good thing in this context.  So we stand there…holding hands…waiting…

Fade to black…

Did I mention I hate being sick?


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