QUOTE(A.B. Normal @ Jan 12 2005, 11:16 PM)
my cheeks were clenched the whole way
Oh, my.
Full Version: Cinema of the mind.
Oh, my.
Abby just made me blush.
Abby just made me wet.
Everything makes you wet.
not true.
baby powder makes me fart clouds.
baby powder makes me fart clouds.
Back on topic for a moment (sorry)
I've had Lounge related dreams before, but they're usually too obscure to mention.
Last night, however, I had a dream that there was a random LoucheFest and Jack was there. And he had really horrible hair. It wasn't quite a mullet, but it was bad. Everyone kept staring and laughing behind his back, but they were telling him he looked good.
I finally went up to politely suggest that he return to his stylist and demand it be fixed, but then my alarm went off.
I wonder if he'll still have that awful mess the next time I drift off to sleep.
I've had Lounge related dreams before, but they're usually too obscure to mention.
Last night, however, I had a dream that there was a random LoucheFest and Jack was there. And he had really horrible hair. It wasn't quite a mullet, but it was bad. Everyone kept staring and laughing behind his back, but they were telling him he looked good.
I finally went up to politely suggest that he return to his stylist and demand it be fixed, but then my alarm went off.
I wonder if he'll still have that awful mess the next time I drift off to sleep.
No, he got a divorce.
I got a job at a funeral home. I'd ended up in it having come to loose ends, and signed on with the crew as unskilled labor. I knew the people that ran it- they were good folks, and this business had been in their family for generations.
In fact, my mother and I had rented a room from them when I was much, much younger, and I had only fond memories (aside from those of course that a seven year old will naturally develop sleeping two doors down from a collection of the recently departed.) But I was a grown up now, and random grandmas with too much makeup and a very low body temperature were just that to me- no chance of them shambling in at midnight, stinking of formaldehyde and demanding I eat my peas.
They were dedicated- the old man even had an entire huge room (not for the public) devoted to funerary art, much of which was ancient and Italian. These people knew death, respected it, even invited it home for dinner and let it use the guest room.
They were all so steadfastly unsuperstitious, it made you wonder what they were covering up. Nothing bad, of course- these were, as aforementioned, good solid people, salt of the opened-and-waiting earth.
The first few months of my new employment went by, and I was seeing myself the way I always had- working a crappy job as research for an upcoming writing project (that I scrupulously refused to realize was never going to get past page two.)
At first, it was just the sort of things funeral people get used to shrugging off- corpses moving (just a muscle reaction) or opening their eyes.
It was a little harder to ignore when Mrs Millerman was found to have her hair down (a style she adored, but had not worn in a king's age, as Mr Millerman had always felt it more dignified worn up and in a headache-inducing bun.) It was I who had to put it to rights, as the funeral was actually waiting to begin downstairs, and nobody would cop to it.
I discreetely avoided mentioning (or admiting I had noticed, thank you very much) the pancake and rouge that was rubbed from her pallid fingers and could be found in certain places in her hair and on the pins that had held the bun. Instead, I just wheeled her into the elevator and sent her down. There were other things too- a whole wall of pictures in the funeral-art room deranged (might have been the house settling or a minor earthquake.) Windex will get makeup-fingerprints off of glass, but it's a bitch to get it off of an antique frame without hurting the gold leaf.
These were not things you could say with a straight face, especially to the stolid inmates of a funeral home.
The lady of the house and I were getting a body from the upstairs when we heard a curious sound- the wail of a child, echoing and lost- that sounded like the sort of noise you might make on your way to Hell. The way it trailed off, that kid must have been going south at about a hundred miles an hour, and let me tell you, there was nowhere in that house or it's environs capable of making that kind of an echo. We shared that look, you know the kind- and then she just went and shrugged it off.
Things went along in this way for a few more weeks, until we heard there'd been a disturbance at one of the graves- one of our graves, and the disturbance was fucking disturbing, because the descriptions made it sound as if the grave had been opened from the inside.
From the inside.
Since it was a Saturday, and since we didn't have any funerals on, and since it was sunny, we all decided to go and see this for ourselves. We were going to hike the five miles or so outside of town to the cemetary, have a picnic lunch.
We were walking through the green fields, just down a little two lane road. A van went by with no driver (there was a glare, but I'd swear that beatup looking thing had nobody behind the wheel. I'd also swear it had been the van from the news three days before headed 'traffic fatality.)
We stopped for lunch. Somebody bit into a hotdog kind of thing- some sort of wurst or other. Somebody else said 'let me get a bite of that.' So I was passing this hot-dog thing down, and I looked at the pink, bitten end.
And that's when I woke up in a cold sweat.
The unquiet dead apparently held no terrors, but the hotdog- brrr....
In fact, my mother and I had rented a room from them when I was much, much younger, and I had only fond memories (aside from those of course that a seven year old will naturally develop sleeping two doors down from a collection of the recently departed.) But I was a grown up now, and random grandmas with too much makeup and a very low body temperature were just that to me- no chance of them shambling in at midnight, stinking of formaldehyde and demanding I eat my peas.
They were dedicated- the old man even had an entire huge room (not for the public) devoted to funerary art, much of which was ancient and Italian. These people knew death, respected it, even invited it home for dinner and let it use the guest room.
They were all so steadfastly unsuperstitious, it made you wonder what they were covering up. Nothing bad, of course- these were, as aforementioned, good solid people, salt of the opened-and-waiting earth.
The first few months of my new employment went by, and I was seeing myself the way I always had- working a crappy job as research for an upcoming writing project (that I scrupulously refused to realize was never going to get past page two.)
At first, it was just the sort of things funeral people get used to shrugging off- corpses moving (just a muscle reaction) or opening their eyes.
It was a little harder to ignore when Mrs Millerman was found to have her hair down (a style she adored, but had not worn in a king's age, as Mr Millerman had always felt it more dignified worn up and in a headache-inducing bun.) It was I who had to put it to rights, as the funeral was actually waiting to begin downstairs, and nobody would cop to it.
I discreetely avoided mentioning (or admiting I had noticed, thank you very much) the pancake and rouge that was rubbed from her pallid fingers and could be found in certain places in her hair and on the pins that had held the bun. Instead, I just wheeled her into the elevator and sent her down. There were other things too- a whole wall of pictures in the funeral-art room deranged (might have been the house settling or a minor earthquake.) Windex will get makeup-fingerprints off of glass, but it's a bitch to get it off of an antique frame without hurting the gold leaf.
These were not things you could say with a straight face, especially to the stolid inmates of a funeral home.
The lady of the house and I were getting a body from the upstairs when we heard a curious sound- the wail of a child, echoing and lost- that sounded like the sort of noise you might make on your way to Hell. The way it trailed off, that kid must have been going south at about a hundred miles an hour, and let me tell you, there was nowhere in that house or it's environs capable of making that kind of an echo. We shared that look, you know the kind- and then she just went and shrugged it off.
Things went along in this way for a few more weeks, until we heard there'd been a disturbance at one of the graves- one of our graves, and the disturbance was fucking disturbing, because the descriptions made it sound as if the grave had been opened from the inside.
From the inside.
Since it was a Saturday, and since we didn't have any funerals on, and since it was sunny, we all decided to go and see this for ourselves. We were going to hike the five miles or so outside of town to the cemetary, have a picnic lunch.
We were walking through the green fields, just down a little two lane road. A van went by with no driver (there was a glare, but I'd swear that beatup looking thing had nobody behind the wheel. I'd also swear it had been the van from the news three days before headed 'traffic fatality.)
We stopped for lunch. Somebody bit into a hotdog kind of thing- some sort of wurst or other. Somebody else said 'let me get a bite of that.' So I was passing this hot-dog thing down, and I looked at the pink, bitten end.
And that's when I woke up in a cold sweat.
The unquiet dead apparently held no terrors, but the hotdog- brrr....
I want more.
Oh no, that story is complete
Glad to see some people are sharing. I like dreams.
Oh man,
Da Rabbit kicks ass.
Da Rabbit kicks ass.
My sleepytime brains are glad you liked it.I kind of want to know what happens myself, but I haven't had that one pick up again yet. Episodic dreams rock. Except when they are about bad things happening to me, but I haven't had any of those since that poor mr Krueger from down the street died.
My Episodic dreams were canceled after the first episode.
QUOTE(DaRabbit @ Feb 20 2005, 10:12 AM)
I haven't had any of those since that poor mr Krueger from down the street died.
Care to talk about it?
I would, but everytime I do, the people I talked to end up dead in mysterious ways, raving about a burned man with claws the night before they die.
It works out great, though- there is no better way to break up with a girlfriend than having that one last 'heart to heart' where I tell her about my nightmares.
Sympathy from my friends, dead-ended police investigations, and I sleep like a log for weeks.
It works out great, though- there is no better way to break up with a girlfriend than having that one last 'heart to heart' where I tell her about my nightmares.
Sympathy from my friends, dead-ended police investigations, and I sleep like a log for weeks.
QUOTE(DaRabbit @ Mar 2 2005, 10:18 PM)
there is no better way to break up with a girlfriend than tell her about my nightmares.
You could tell her your dreams.
If you want to breakup with them tell them nothing.
bullshit....
yeah, like when talking to a woman you can get a word in edgewise anyway...
yeah, like when talking to a woman you can get a word in edgewise anyway...
True!
Sometimes, trying to talk to a woman is like getting kicked in the nuts over and over again.
I'm really glad I'm not a woman.
i wish i could say that
QUOTE(A.B. Normal @ Mar 4 2005, 11:22 AM)
I'm really glad I'm not a woman.
Are you a gay man trapped in a womans body?
AKA SPAZ-ASS as a fetus.
Hee!
No, if that were the case, I'd like to think I'd have better fashion sense.
And a cleaner house.
And I'd prolly work out.
No, if that were the case, I'd like to think I'd have better fashion sense.
And a cleaner house.
And I'd prolly work out.
Oh, sure, yis great oafs, blame the women for your little communication issues while you keep right on staring into the soothing, mute glow of the monitor.
exactly.
it's easier to ignore the nonsensical rambling by looking at the nonsensical rambling.
it's easier to ignore the nonsensical rambling by looking at the nonsensical rambling.
There's nothing little about my communication issues.
I had a dream where my dad was talking to John Elway at Mile High Stadium.
Then I was flying.
I landed on the set of those stop-action Play-doh™ people on Sesame Street. You know the ones, they were always morphing into, like, numbers and stuff.
Well, they were just doing their thing, you know, teaching kids about six and blending together to make colorful spirals and shit, and then they noticed me in the room.
Needless to say, that's where things started getting hairy.
I think I'll stop there...
But if you follow me on over to Smutty's I'll finish the story.
Then I was flying.
I landed on the set of those stop-action Play-doh™ people on Sesame Street. You know the ones, they were always morphing into, like, numbers and stuff.
Well, they were just doing their thing, you know, teaching kids about six and blending together to make colorful spirals and shit, and then they noticed me in the room.
Needless to say, that's where things started getting hairy.
I think I'll stop there...
But if you follow me on over to Smutty's I'll finish the story.
We need more Six education in American schools.
Gullet, It's OK to post naughty words and ribald statements anywhere you please. It's non-work-safe imagery that belongs in the Sandbox.
Gullet, It's OK to post naughty words and ribald statements anywhere you please. It's non-work-safe imagery that belongs in the Sandbox.
Yeah, Mullét.
I've got blue balls over here.
Finish your story!
I've got blue balls over here.
Finish your story!
Blue balls would make a good addition to your avatar.
Right. So anyway, that cute little red clay-girl with the straw colored hair got down on her knees in front of me and said,"Ohhhhh, you're sooooo soft, and that's such a hot shade of goldenrod!!!"
Me, being naturally sauve, replied,"Yeeeaaah baby, I know that's how you like it. Now get ready, cause I'm going to morph your brains out baby!!!".
We did the square, the triangle, the cube(it was a threesome!) and of course, 69.
Then we all melted down that imaginary drain and Big Bird took over.
I woke up down by the river, completely naked and smeared in grape jelly.
Me, being naturally sauve, replied,"Yeeeaaah baby, I know that's how you like it. Now get ready, cause I'm going to morph your brains out baby!!!".
We did the square, the triangle, the cube(it was a threesome!) and of course, 69.
Then we all melted down that imaginary drain and Big Bird took over.
I woke up down by the river, completely naked and smeared in grape jelly.
QUOTE(Celticgent @ Mar 4 2005, 05:52 PM)
bullshit....
yeah, like when talking to a woman you can get a word in edgewise anyway...
yeah, like when talking to a woman you can get a word in edgewise anyway...
*I* can get a word in - it's the women that can't get a word in edgewise.
Must've been why it took me 9 years to find a mate, though.
9 years?!?!
What, don't they have homes for the deaf-mute in Belgia?
What, don't they have homes for the deaf-mute in Belgia?
Sheesh, can I take-back everything I said about that Green Mullet Feller? I mean, really, that dream is truly fucked up! John Elway?
For some reason, I wholeheartedly believe that that was no dream.
Either way, talking to that toothy-bastard isn't worthy of spilling your guts....
As long as Spleen Pullét's spewing verbal diarrhea, I'll provide the Charmin.
Unfortunately for me, my life-stories are way better than my dreams.
Ask me about the Puerto Rican gal with the broken fingers at LF05!
And to be honest, dreams, anymore, are something I try to remember, and wish that I have, but only occur (or at least are remembered) at very rare intervals anymore. Usually they are strange, without making any sense or direction, and are quickly forgotten. I miss the dreams that I used to have!
Except those of your mom, CeeGee!
Some things are better-off forgotten!
Ask me about the Puerto Rican gal with the broken fingers at LF05!
And to be honest, dreams, anymore, are something I try to remember, and wish that I have, but only occur (or at least are remembered) at very rare intervals anymore. Usually they are strange, without making any sense or direction, and are quickly forgotten. I miss the dreams that I used to have!
Except those of your mom, CeeGee!
Some things are better-off forgotten!
I always knew you were quilted, buttwipe.
I'm more of a quicker picker upper.
Just ask Grimmy.
Balz™, based on what you just posted, I'll have visions on CeeGee's and his mom's gunt dancing through my head tonight. Thanks.
man, I'm gonna get it Monday, when SqueeGee (pretending he's working) gets to posting
Just ask Grimmy.
Balz™, based on what you just posted, I'll have visions on CeeGee's and his mom's gunt dancing through my head tonight. Thanks.
man, I'm gonna get it Monday, when SqueeGee (pretending he's working) gets to posting
QUOTE(balzdeep @ Mar 6 2005, 01:26 AM)
Unfortunately for me, my life-stories are way better than my dreams.
Ask me about the Puerto Rican gal with the broken fingers at LF05!
Ask me about the Puerto Rican gal with the broken fingers at LF05!
I didn't know you could see the future.
OK, this was odd.
Saturday night, I dreamed that Skeeter and I were flipping a house together (buy, renovate, re-sell. No, not living together, just profit!).
Not sure where it was, back east somewhere, or PNW, a cooler climate. It wasn't in AZ.
The woman from Property Ladder showed up to check on our progress, which was odd, because I didn't know we were on the show. She was all full of compliments.
The kitchen was all new and grate, and our open house was in a couple of days. I was touching up the paint in the . . . um . . . not sure what room it was. It was big, about 20 x 25 or so, with probably 10 foot ceilings. I started on a chair, cuz the touch-ups were by the ceiling. The chair kept tipping over and I was spilling paint on the furniture. (It was crappy furniture anyway.)
I got an 8-foot stepladder, which somehow got me no closer to ceiling height than the chair, and also kept falling over.
Every time I fell over, I'd notice something else horribly wrong. More places to repaint, the fact that the floor was part beat-up wood, part nasty carpet, and part blue vinyl composition tile . . . And that there was a big shallow sink on one side of the room, a range in another area, and a gas heater of sorts with a tile backdrop perpendicular to a wall.
Then I woke up.
Ahh, but it gets stranger. I found out this morning that Skeeter had left a message on my cell phone Saturday night . . .
Saturday night, I dreamed that Skeeter and I were flipping a house together (buy, renovate, re-sell. No, not living together, just profit!).
Not sure where it was, back east somewhere, or PNW, a cooler climate. It wasn't in AZ.
The woman from Property Ladder showed up to check on our progress, which was odd, because I didn't know we were on the show. She was all full of compliments.
The kitchen was all new and grate, and our open house was in a couple of days. I was touching up the paint in the . . . um . . . not sure what room it was. It was big, about 20 x 25 or so, with probably 10 foot ceilings. I started on a chair, cuz the touch-ups were by the ceiling. The chair kept tipping over and I was spilling paint on the furniture. (It was crappy furniture anyway.)
I got an 8-foot stepladder, which somehow got me no closer to ceiling height than the chair, and also kept falling over.
Every time I fell over, I'd notice something else horribly wrong. More places to repaint, the fact that the floor was part beat-up wood, part nasty carpet, and part blue vinyl composition tile . . . And that there was a big shallow sink on one side of the room, a range in another area, and a gas heater of sorts with a tile backdrop perpendicular to a wall.
Then I woke up.
Ahh, but it gets stranger. I found out this morning that Skeeter had left a message on my cell phone Saturday night . . .
I remember the first dream I ever had,
it's very similar to the last dream I had,
and many times in between,
I've had a similar dream.
it's very similar to the last dream I had,
and many times in between,
I've had a similar dream.
That's one Möbius strip of a post there, Kirky.
I have Lounge dreams all the time now.
The other night I had a dream that I saw Rimmy’s Wrath™ hanging above a door somewhere and it made me giggle.
Actually, I assumed it was a dream because my weekend was temporally "off" and rather foggy.
And I couldn’t find my pants for most of it.
As it turns out, it wasn’t a dream and I saw it at my local liquor store.
I really hope I found my pants before I went there.
The other night I had a dream that I saw Rimmy’s Wrath™ hanging above a door somewhere and it made me giggle.
Actually, I assumed it was a dream because my weekend was temporally "off" and rather foggy.
And I couldn’t find my pants for most of it.
As it turns out, it wasn’t a dream and I saw it at my local liquor store.
I really hope I found my pants before I went there.
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