Tag Archives: dream

Benadryl Dreams

2 May

My elbow has calmed down and my sore throat turned out to be allergies. Last night, I decided to take Benadryl to treat my symptoms and I had a dream that it was the 1800’s and ChrisDeVoss showed up at my house to exchange goods (no, not those kinds of goods).

I traded my mint leaves for his Uncrustable (no, not those mint leaves or that Uncrustable) and a video tape with this music video that he thought I would like:

 

 

I do like it, thanks dream Chris. We watched it and jammed the eff out. When it was over, I turned to him and very seriously commented, “When they invent the internet, I am so going to use ‘sexy soufflé’ in one of my posts.” See? Now I have.

I woke up laughing. God bless Benadryl dreams.

My night with Wolfman Jack/The reason I stopped drinking cheap vodka

23 Sep

Last year at this time I was running around like a crazy person because I was moving, buying a house, celebrating my birthday, meeting my boyfriend and basically drinking every single night of the week at Frazier’s with my pal Dee Dee. One evening, when I finally had a few minutes to relax before going out, my brother showed me a clip from Burt Sugarman’s Midnight Special:

I enjoyed it, had a good laugh at pretty much everything happening in the video and moved on. My subconscious, however,  had different plans–that tart.

That night, while I slept, my subconscious awoke, got all skanked up and took me on over to the house of Wolfman Jack for perhaps the most disgusting sex dream experience that I’ve ever had in my life. It was awful. Thinking about it now sends shivers down my spine, and no, I don’t mean the good kind. Why would my subconscious betray me in this way? I thought we were friends, but no, not that night. That night my subconscious whore had sex with Wolfman Jack while You Sexy Thing played in the background on my subconscious stereo. Gross.

This is the look he had on his face the whole time:

How appalled are you right now?  Then, to make matters worse, Wolfman Jack kicked me out of his house after he was done. That ass! I didn’t have time to pick up my clothes so I walked home naked. My subconscious even went through the trouble of making the mascara run down my face as I cried. I was just so hurt that Wolfman Jack used me like that.

So what the hell? What did it all mean? Was that some sort of warning? Did Wolfman Jack’s ghost channel me through the cheap vodka I drank that night? How did my subconscious know his address? The world may never know.

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