What Chicken-Fueled Dreams May Come…

I’m going to have to stop eating chicken. Every time I’ve had chicken for dinner in the last six months I’ve had these bizarrely realistic dreams. Realistic in that they feature almost entirely people that I know in the real world and bizarre in that the situations range from mildly entertaining to something just shy of horrifying.

Last night’s edition of What Chicken-Fueled Dreams May Come featured a long time friend of mine standing high on a rock outcropping overlooking a ten story building that disappeared into the darkness on either end of the dream frame. Flicking her wrist, snarling “fuck them,” the building collapsed in on itself, bursting into flame from the center out. The wind swirled in, feeding the growing conflagration. Her face danced, colored alternately in darkness in bright flicking oranges and yellows, while I stood gape jawed staring at the destruction.

I turn, my own fury rising, shouting over the now howling wind, “What did you do? What the fuck did you…”

Then she kissed me. Not the soft peck of a years long friend, but more a full body porn star quality kiss. Sure, I just dream-watched one of my oldest friends lay waste to everything in my field of view, but that part at least didn’t suck so much.

Then I woke up, safe in my own bed, and not watching the world around me collapse into flame and chaos.

Living in my head is awfully strange sometimes… but obviously chicken turns it into a raging dumpster fire. Good times.

Big slobbery kiss…

No one knows better than me that the best laid plans tend to go wildly off course at the first opportunity. This weekend has proved to be no exception to the First Rule of Operational Planning. Instead of attacking the arm-length list of things to do today, I’m mostly sitting here nursing a sore throat and wondering if I’d be better off switching from coffee to tea with honey and lemon for the day. I don’t feel sick so at least for the moment it’s just another minor irritation making its presence known among so many others.

So today is changing gears. Instead of going out and getting things done I’m going to try being an indoor cat (and getting things done). After all, having some kind of throat crud doesn’t prevent me from doing research, or laundry, or from getting my first attempt at EnemiesListbeef stew in the pot before first light this morning. All I’m really trying to do is avoid talking if at all possible.

If my temperature spikes and this starts looking like Ebola, though, I’ll be out and about quick as you please… Should I find myself about to expire in a agonizing, blood-soaked death there’s a list of people I need to find so I can give them a big slobbery kiss.