Thought #1
Finally. A $*x dream with someone normal. Well that was obvious, wasn't it? The symbols were supposed to make what I was saying more discreet, but since you'll figure it out, anyway, I might as well say it. SEX DREAM. Happy now? I don't care, we all have them. It's not like anyone of us can control that, either. Trust me, I know. As far as sexual subconsciousness with celebrities goes, I've been cut the low end of the bargain. Not even the low end - the lowest end.
First it was Jim Carrey.
Then it was Jeff Daniels.
HOLY SHIT. I seriously just made the connection as I was writing this. What. The hell. Is wrong with me.
Next thing you know, I'll be dreaming about this guy.
Whatever. At least with Dumb and Dumber, it was successful. When I was blessed to have a sex dream with Hugh Jackman, he couldn't get it up. Seriously, that was the dream. I was trying, and he remained limp. Then I woke up. Wolverine impotency is worse than Lloyd lube. It's like my subconscious is telling me, "You could get some from a guy who fantasizes about lighting his farts, but you couldn't ever arouse someone normal and handsome." My mind hates me.
Thought #2
After awaking from my nap (which occurred after consuming two 5-hour energies. If you want energy, just take one. There's no such thing as 10-hour energy. The two cancel each other out and you fall asleep. This means I spent seven dollars on 0-hour energy. I paid money to take a nap.), I heard something.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
I got out of bed and then heard:
"How you doin' baybay? How you doin'?"
The voice was coming from my porch.
Clink. Clink.
"Oh, Iz fine. Iz real fine."
The conversation being held was in the exact same voice. Someone was talking to themselves. On my porch.
Clink.
I knew that sound very well. It was the sound of empty aluminum cans hitting other empty aluminum cans.
"Dat's good to hear, dat's real nice, real nice."
Someone was talking to themselves and stealing cans from my trash can. You may think this is a crazy assumption, but it turns out, I've had my cans stolen before. That's a different story.
"Well, wutz youz doin' today, huh?"
I wanted to peek out my door, but I was afraid. What if they have a gun? Look, I'm paranoid and I know it. But you'd be paranoid, too if you had some 6 foot tall man chase you down your street in the middle of the day just three months ago. That's also different story.
I went and got my roommates.
"I think someone is on our porch talking to themselves and stealing our cans."
"What?"
I felt guilty. I'm always the bearer of bad news in my house, the one who knocks on my roommate's door with something like, "Your car has been beaned!" or "Someone threw pumpkins at our walls!" or "Schitzo with cans, schitzo with cans!"
One of my roommates, being brave and curious, got up.
"I'm going out there."
He came back a minute later and confirmed my suspicions.
"There's someone out there digging through our trash cans."
"Let her have the cans," my other roommate said. "As long as she doesn't throw any trash in the neighbor's yard."
"You should blog about this, Natasha."
"I will!" I said. "But if I'm going to write about it, I'll have to make it more interesting...fuck, I'm gonna go out there."
The things I do for this blog. I risked my LIFE for you readers. You can never repay me.
I walked outside and there she was, hobbling away with a giant bag in her hand.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The cans clinked with every step she took. She didn't look over, despite the fact that I had turned the porch light on over her. (What? I'm not going to confront The Can-Napper in the dark. Come on, people.) Instead, she mozied on her way, having a conversation with her imaginary accomplice.
"Dey got dem brown bags, youz know dey got dat weed in dat house!"
I don't know what that means, but she ain't goin' weed-diggin in my crib. Take all the cans you want, lady. STAY OUT OF MY HOUSE. I may not have weed, but I do have toys. They are very precious to me, unlike the cans, which were precious - until they were empty.
Thought #3
I have a confession to make. My Christian Bale dream...well, it wasn't Batman Christian Bale.
It was American Psycho Christian Bale. Fuck it. At least he has normal blood flow. YOU HEAR THAT, HUGH? I DON'T NEED YOU. I'VE MOVED ON...at least until you've got Viagra.
No comments:
Post a Comment