it came from nowhere...
Jan. 21st, 2003 09:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
brightbluegirlLast night I dreamed that I was a detective, and I had a partner in detecting. We went undercover into a house full of supremely crazy people. I went in as his servant. The people were killing little children and eating them. I had to paw through cooked pieces of children to find the "best ones to eat". There was a boy there (separate from the children they were killing and eating) who had a bruise on his eyes, between his eyes, like makeup going from one ear to another. He was crazy. He tied another little boy up in a bed and made him drink bleach - the thing that had made him crazy and bruised. He thought he was a superman. The house was a tower. I blew it up with napalm. Other people died too. Paramedics came and tested whether or not I had a broken back/neck. I told them I was feeling sleepy, so I might have a concussion, but then they took off the crash neck thing, and I realized I was feeling sleepy because I couldn't see/hear well when the crash thing was on. I started to cry great big gulps for what I had done, because other people had died, even though the paramedics and police said I did what was right.
I woke up upset. I'm tired of this.
Last night someone from work drove me home with a computer (the one I took home before had a broken cd drive). He offered me a toke while we were driving in his car, and I said no thanks, and he had to push it and say "why?" so I said "I don't smoke without andrew" which is a big crock, but it just flew out of my mouth! (The real reason: I am uncomfortable toking in a driving car in daylight) Anyway, he said we could all toke together when we got to my place.
Andrew actually smoked, surprisingly. He never does, usually, because his tolerance is so high (it's a genetic thing - it's so bad that he can't take pain pills if he has a headache or whatever, because they do nothing for him). Anyway, he took deep breaths, and ended up coughing a LOT. Afterwards, he really didn't feel well. (I think he swallowed some smoke) I felt so bad for him, and so responsible. The guy from work left, and Andrew went to lie down for awhile. I stayed with him, rubbing his chest and back, speaking softly to him, that sort of thing, until the phone rang. It was a friend of mine from Toronto, and we've been trying to get in touch for some time, so he told me to go ahead, he'd be fine on his own.
I talked to her for about an hour, and then I heard some really gross puke splat sounds. I told her I had to go, and I went into the bedroom, and he had puked everywhere. Everywhere. On the bed. On the pillows. On the floor. On the massager next to the bed. On his pants. On a slipper. On the comforter. Everywhere.
Poor Andrew.
And he was still puking. So I put a garbage bin underneath him, and got some paper towels, and started cleaning. After awhile he was done puking, and he said he felt immeasurably better, and started helping. We mopped the floor, made a pile of things to be washed, and left the floor to dry before we put new sheets and blankets on the bed.
My poor Andrew.
I made pizza (yum yum yum yummmmmy pizza with spinach and mushrooms (cooked in balsamic vinegar) and sundried tomatos and soft goat chevre. mmmmmmmmm). And we watched Joe Millionaire. He was still quiet, but he did look better, and he felt better. This morning he seems to be doing fine.
It sucked. I felt so bad for him.
I woke up upset. I'm tired of this.
Last night someone from work drove me home with a computer (the one I took home before had a broken cd drive). He offered me a toke while we were driving in his car, and I said no thanks, and he had to push it and say "why?" so I said "I don't smoke without andrew" which is a big crock, but it just flew out of my mouth! (The real reason: I am uncomfortable toking in a driving car in daylight) Anyway, he said we could all toke together when we got to my place.
Andrew actually smoked, surprisingly. He never does, usually, because his tolerance is so high (it's a genetic thing - it's so bad that he can't take pain pills if he has a headache or whatever, because they do nothing for him). Anyway, he took deep breaths, and ended up coughing a LOT. Afterwards, he really didn't feel well. (I think he swallowed some smoke) I felt so bad for him, and so responsible. The guy from work left, and Andrew went to lie down for awhile. I stayed with him, rubbing his chest and back, speaking softly to him, that sort of thing, until the phone rang. It was a friend of mine from Toronto, and we've been trying to get in touch for some time, so he told me to go ahead, he'd be fine on his own.
I talked to her for about an hour, and then I heard some really gross puke splat sounds. I told her I had to go, and I went into the bedroom, and he had puked everywhere. Everywhere. On the bed. On the pillows. On the floor. On the massager next to the bed. On his pants. On a slipper. On the comforter. Everywhere.
Poor Andrew.
And he was still puking. So I put a garbage bin underneath him, and got some paper towels, and started cleaning. After awhile he was done puking, and he said he felt immeasurably better, and started helping. We mopped the floor, made a pile of things to be washed, and left the floor to dry before we put new sheets and blankets on the bed.
My poor Andrew.
I made pizza (yum yum yum yummmmmy pizza with spinach and mushrooms (cooked in balsamic vinegar) and sundried tomatos and soft goat chevre. mmmmmmmmm). And we watched Joe Millionaire. He was still quiet, but he did look better, and he felt better. This morning he seems to be doing fine.
It sucked. I felt so bad for him.
