This week will never end, will it?

Sometimes I get stuck in a pocket of time that seems thicker than others. This is happening to me this week. It’s only Wednesday, but it seems I’ve lived enough for several weeks already. Ugh.

I’m dreaming again. Ever since my friend got caught in the fire, I’ve been dreaming. I think I mentioned someone I love was close to death. Death by burning. One of the worst ways to die. He’s doing somewhat better, thanks.

I can’t stop the dreams.

A recurring character has been my tattooed husband. I don’t know where he came from. He’s some actor who specializes in dreams, I guess, and I’m lucky enough to get him these days. He’s tall and has full sleeves and is what people would call “rough trade,” but pretty hot. The best dream so far was one where I was smuggling diamonds in ice cream containers. He was my partner in crime. It was my job to shove the diamonds into the containers and stuff them into the freezers, all nice and neat. He was just banging around the house in jeans, a white tank top, and motorcycle boots, barking something about the “damn pigs.” It was kind of fun, being a bandit. One diamond per container, please. Neapolitan, strawberry, pistachio. There was no ice cream, just diamonds and cardboard. They were very small containers and very big diamonds.

Last night I was being tailed by the cops. My husband was nowhere to be seen. Turns out my tags had been cut off by someone: that part of my license plate was missing. The policeman was extremely nice, despite what my previous dream experience had told me they would be like.

My husband and I did have alien sex the other night, with his hand on my arm. Then I was pregnant. I repeat: all he did was lay his hand on my arm and then I was pregnant. That’s weak on so many levels.

Mostly I don’t remember much, I just wake up agitated and tired, with flashes of the man. He’s very real. He and I get along, so that’s not the agitating part. I just don’t like the active parts of my nightlife right now. I’m not used to dreaming so much anymore. I used to dream a lot. I’m an insomniac, and so dreaming is par for the course. Part of my light sleeperness is dreaming. But now I’m medicated, so I don’t dream anymore. I’m out of shape for it.

Maybe I can push myself into better dreams tonight. I’ll try. I’ll invoke the husband and a road trip. I think he’d like that. Motorcycles and cheap motels. Winston light 100s (I used to smoke those) and fringe jacket for me, with tight jeans I can hardly bend over in. He’ll be part of a club called something like Skull Cups. We’ll go to the casino and win! We’ll even win at the slot machine at the gas station. We will meet the connect and make the deal. Everything in the crank case. The pigs will be too busy talking to my man about my ass to think anything is amiss. Everything will go just swimmingly. Yes, swimmingly. I will wake up refreshed from sleep, like a dip in cool water. Not like burning. Not at all.

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2 comments

  1. Seer McRicketts-McGee

    Didn’t happen. Last night I was a prostitute/poet scrapping over a killer Halloween costume. I was in another dream supposed to drive to meet Zorro Smitty in San Francisco but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to get to where he was.

  2. Pingback: More than a weirdo to me | Occipital Hazard

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