The hazards of a dream journalist

 

One of these days all my depraved kinky dreams are gonna get blasted on a mass email to all of my friends and they'll find out what my subconscious has been doing with them at night. 

Last night, Suzanne was up to bat again, with James, the somewhat sulky but unrepentant brat, who was about to stand idly by while I deflowered his wife as a part of some required ritual sex exchange. It went like this:

Because they had just gotten married, it was a requirement that she was to have the nuptial act of "first married relations" performed in a timely manner. There was a window of opportunity for this act to have to occur, or there would be some unknown consequences. 

James was dragging his feet, but Suzanne was unwavering. It had to be done, even if performed by an outsider such as myself. I was all set to accompany her to a hilltop location of her choosing, but I thought I'd ask James one more time.

"No, man. You go ahead," was his pouty, self-pitying reply.

"It is going to happen," I told him, "Unless you call me on this telephone." I produced an oversized cellular phone reminiscent of the earliest '80s models.

Naturally, I was conflicted. There was gonna be sex. Woo-hoo. But I had to deal with the guilt of betrayal of my friend and his hurt feelings. Oh, well, the imperative was that this ritual take place, regardless. She led the way, sprinting on ahead and leaving me with a crude drawing of a map to the location where she'd be waiting for me. 

I was planning my route when, you guessed it, my quarter expired and dream time came to an end. Until next time on Andrew's Inappropriate Dream Theater...

On an unrelated note, I'm still experiencing things in this life that need a bit of attention. One is my lovely LED which is on at the moment. It has been blinking like crazy lately. It has been enough to make me pull up a Morse code chart to see if it's an actual transmission of that nature. I haven't gotten any full words out, but I could make a case for a few random letters and numbers. 

But when I was speaking to the chatty LED last night, having a conversation with Sharon about my business with Lesa and the guilt I felt over it, I got a distinct response when I said the words, "I love you." The little light blinked back, as if modulating the syllables precisely. 

I don't know what more I can really ask for to be convinced. I should take the win and not question it any more. But I probably will, designing more complex tests and hoops for my dearly departed to have to jump through.

My decluttering mode got an ugly infusion of necessity last night as I was scavenging through the bedroom dresser looking for things to throw away. I found some new and slightly used bathrobes in a drawer with evidence of mice and other pests inside the wrapping. There were some bugs crawling around in there, as well as mouse poop and hidden bits of cat food, all clinging to this garment. 

I took them outside to shake them off while I went back to vacuum out the drawers. Then I thought to myself, "Why the fuck am I gonna try to save these anyway?" They hadn't been used in the ten years I've had them, and now they are infested with bugs and poop. Am I really going to wash them and repack them up, to be broken out at some future time? MMmm, not likely. Into the trash they went.

This looks to be the start of a process of long overdue deep cleaning and inventory of my pathetic hoarded possessions. Hopefully, I won't require (or be blessed with) more disgusting findings as impetus to thin out my junk. But I am now on the path to getting to the bottom of my layers of stored crap at least to make certain I'm not just collecting bugs and feces.