Last night I dreamt that my boyfriend was Orlando Bloom but his name was Taylor. And I had to eat a live goldfish. It was much smaller and not as finny as the one pictured here but gross nonetheless. I spit it into my hand and put it on a white window sill. The orange of the mushed fish was the only color in the room. We were in an office I used to work in in Birmingham, Alabama, same view and everything--except there was nothing in it but me, a fish tank that took up half the room, and the mushed gold fish.
It's crazy all the stuff swimming around in here that I don't know about until I go to sleep.
1 comment:
How about a description of the dream that I, your blonde Boston doppleganger, had last night:
I am in bed with my mother in the second of three houses my parents have lived in since I have been alive. My brother is somewhere in the house. Only it's not my brother brother, not the one I grew up with. It's some other faceless male.
He's trying to kill us; he's killed everyone else in the house. I look in the drawer in the nightstand next to the bed. There's a sawed-off semiautomatic shotgun in there. I'm very afraid of it but I pick it up. My mother, who has a gun of her own, shows me how to load and shoot the gun. I try shooting it myself. I'm less afraid of the gun, but more afraid of my brother finding us, because of the noise.
I hear my brother getting closer and closer. My heart is racing because I know he's going to come in shooting. He throws open the door and starts firing at us.
My mother sits there frozen and I think of course, of course, you can't kill him, he came from your womb.
But I can. I fire the semiautomatic sawed-off shotgun at him again and again. I'm yelling as I do it. He falls to the ground.
Geez, man, WTF?
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