Many years ago now, back in the days of responsibility, I met a magical dream guru. Whenever I saw him at parties, he asked about my dreams but then didn't really comment on them besides nodding, humming or moaning in a peculiar way. He also likes to talk about cuddling a lot. Fascinating, but since he couldn't do much to help make me into the super-famous ultra-celebrity I know I'm destined to be, I stopped dreaming altogether so I wouldn't have anything to talk about if I ever saw him again.
Unfortunately, I started dreaming again a few nights ago and I am terribly conflicted by the messages I have been receiving. Since dreams are prophetic visions delivered straight from God I know that I must take each one of these messages very seriously and devote a majority of time figuring out their meaning and accordingly implementing changes into my life. I am not interested right now in talking to my magical dream guru so it'll have to be all me. Good thing I'm amazingly brilliant so this won't take much effort. Additionally, I've only had about three hours of sleep in the last week so I've got that working for me. I'll still try my best to dumb this down for you, my dear fans.
I was on a ratty yet comfy couch and did nothing but watch an episode of CSI. Not the horrible NY one that makes me want to claw out my eyes or the Miami one whose untimely departure I still lament, the original Las Vegas one I still watch religiously. It was a fascinating episode involving the return of Gil Grissom, but yet his facial hair looked like that of Colonel Sanders and he had put on about 400 lbs. Is this the true fate of William Petersen? I think Manhunter probably wouldn't have had the same effect on me had the Fat Colonel been on the hunt for The Tooth Fairy. With the Taco Bell Chihuahua as Hannibal Lecter: "Yo quiero human flesh."
Anyway, the CSI episode was about how Sara Sidle got pregnant and Grissom wanted her to go on Maury for lie detector and paternity tests. I think this dream means that no matter how popular I become, I must always be ready to whore myself out for any occasion because there's no such thing as bad publicity. Duh. Stupid waste of time dream.
BRB, taking a break to make some 'Sketti for lunch and then barf it all up.
Okay, I'm back.
I was sitting at a dressing table, looking in a mirror, putting on my three inches of face plaster, when I noticed something odd about my chest. It was covered in stubble. Seriously. I had about three days growth of hair all over my chest and torso. This was clearly a nightmare. As you know, I would never have stubble like that on my chest because I wouldn't shave it, I would wax it. This is probably the most unbelievable scenario I could have dreamt,because the stubble was also grey and I only have grey hairs in my eyebrows and beard. The ones on my chest are black.
Perhaps this dream means I should stop applying Propecia to my chest even though my stylist said it would increase my ability to be cast in an episode of Grimm. I think the show is about princesses and fairy tale crap like that and although I've never watched the show or know what the hairy chest part is for, I usually trust his sage advice in my career choices. I'm still confused, though, so I'm going to still keep applying it for the time being until I have a clarification dream.
I don't have much time left before my nap so I can only dictate out one more for now (my cat is typing as I sip my coffee [I type real good meow help me she's crazy send help now meow]). As you can certainly remember, I am a WAG. My husband plays football in an over-40 league (reminder: that means the elite league, they score over 40 goals each season), and this is yet another way I am better than all of you. There are many reasons, yes, but this one is pretty much one of the best. The dream involved a discussion with my footballer husband regarding how he had been ignoring me for six months so I was going to go to Las Vegas to cheat on him. I was packing for the trip and removing clothes from an old suitcase. Once I pulled those clothes out, I lifted up the top of the bed and inside the mattress was a pool of water. I put the clothes in and then put the lid of the mattress back down.
I was then all of a sudden in Las Vegas, in a very low quality room without windows. All over the casino there were Icee machines filled with root beer liquor. This certainly had to be another nightmare as root beer is for simpletons and peasants. If this is a prophetic dream and I do end up in this hellish type of place someday, I'm going to put bleach in the toilet before I go in it and try to gas myself. I've tried it about 20 times before but I'm certain I will someday be able to make it work. Since all hotels stopped cleaning the toilets years ago the final addition of my alcohol-dehydrated super ammonia concentrated urine will cause an explosion of epic proportions. What an awesome obit that will be and the classy people will clap for me the most when I'm in the In Memoriam thing at awards shows.
Any and all dream interpretations welcomed, mine or yours.
PS: Dear Russian visitors, I see you. Welcome. I can always use admirers from all over the world.