Sunday, February 05, 2006

In My Dreams

I was about to write about how I was standing the kitchen, leaning against the counter, licking raw cookie dough off a spoon while reading the container, and Mother was with me, on the phone with her friend, and as I licked the dough I read aloud, "Bake Dough Before Consuming," and Mother nearly fell over with laughter... and that was when I realized that I have nothing to write about.

This blog is getting sad. Just sad. I don't have anything intelligent to say, and if I do, it's too personal to say here. I don't even write in my journal anymore, though; if I do, it's a few sentences a day because I can't work up the energy for any more. Sometimes I think I should stop writing here but God do I love this thing even if it is pure drivel.

Do you know what I did today? I laid in bed all day. Sure, I emerged from my basement abode to shower and eat, but I just laid around all day watching movies and reading "Mrs. Shakespeare" (promising, but at 80 pages in I can safely say that it's dragging and the italicized font is killing my eyes).

I watched "Big Fish" (excellent), "Sleepers" from my Woody Allen collection (cute), and began watching Sister's birthday present to me - the deluxe edition of "Stand By Me" (whatever that means), when I realized how sad my life has become and came upstairs to blog. About cookie dough.

The thing that had me so down and out today was the fact that for the past week, I have been having nightmares every night. I always wake up at 5:30 a.m. in a state of anxiety before going back to sleep. Sometimes the dreams involve traumatic events, like my father's accident, and sometimes they don't have anything realistic in them at all. For example, I remember vaguely from last night's dream that there was some kind of female devil (like the White Witch in Narnia), and she was commissioning me to do some kind of spy work to find out who started World War I (it's my subconscious inner self-chastisement for not knowing global history better, I'll bet). Some other weird ass things happened in the dream - like Leonardo DiCaprio and I were building something (a tower? a wall? a fallout shelter?) but someone shot down something huge from a far-off mountain and knocked it to pieces. (This is what I get for watching "William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet" before going to bed. Who the hell dreams about Leonardo DiCaprio besides 12-year-old girls, like, when I was 12?) There was just this terrible sense of foreboding in the dream; none of it made any sense. At one point my sisters were playing outside and I kept yelling for them to come in because I felt that something was about to come and get them. I woke up totally upset, even though it was completely irrational. But this dream was the most lovely thing ever compared to the bloody, tear-filled dreams about my father. I don't even want to go to sleep anymore.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go peel the half-baked, half-raw chocolate chip cookies off the tin foil and break my diet. Yesssssss.

P.S. Mother found my old glasses dangling from a wire next to the computer. You couldn't make this stuff up, I swear.


A. Estella Sassypants said...

DON'T STOP WRITING! I would melt into a pile of goo the likes of which you've never seen.

fp said...

go out! live a lil! some sun will do good for that pasty skin of yours

cheekynomad said...
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sojourness said...

Thanks fp and Andi.

No problem Sass. You crack me up.