Little slices of death

For those of you who have followed me for a while in der blogosphere (and if so, what the hell's wrong with you?), you probably already know that I have, for some time, endured a somewhat amusing assortment of sleep-related maladies.

As a small child, I had night terrors...horrible dreams from which I was unable to wake. I'd start screaming in my bed and my mom would have to literally carry me into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face to get me out of the clutches of whatever was fucking with my subconscious that night. I dreamed of falling down holes, of my parents being disfigured and shrinking, of cobras and the white witch from Narnia (bitch scared the shit out of me). These dreams subsided as I got older, and then I started sleepwalking.

I didn't really go anywhere, just poked around the house, but this was the source of some real concern for long-suffering mom, who could never be sure if, upon checking on me late in the evening, she might find me tucked in bed, downstairs hiding behind the couch, sitting at the kitchen table talking to no one, or balled up like an armadillo in the back of my closet, laughing like a mad scientist.

As the years went on, however, I grew into a seasoned virtuoso of sleep. I am now a paratrooper, a crackerjack. A Green Fucking Beret. I relish my sleep the way an obese person does a hot buffet at the Piccadilly. I suck the meat off the bones of sleepytime and savor every delicious minute of it.

But lately I've been dreaming again. Ugly, graphically realistic dreams revolving mostly around losing my hair and needing to go to the bathroom.

I know. What the hell.

In one dream I had festering scabs all over my head, which made my hair fall out in bloody clumps. In another I was at work and my boss came up behind me with a flowbee and sheared off the entire front section of my hairline. Don't know what a flowbee is? I've provided you with this useful instructional video.



Questions? No? Good. Now, moving on.

In these dreams I often have a painfully full bladder, and I cannot find a place to go to relieve myself. I either am forced to use a fetid, feces-smeared abandoned toilet (and I'm never wearing shoes!), or I discover an huge open room with numerous toilets lined up like barber's chairs and am unable to pee in private.

What do you think, dear readers? Please discuss. Since I started reading my blog comments, I've saved a ton of money on therapy.

Inquiring mind wants to know.

Flip Flops.

In December. This shit ain't right.

Jesus Tootsie Rolls

While rummaging through Lily's Halloween candy the other day, I came across this.



Yeah.

Thoughts?