Pew, pew! Pew pew pew!

I mumbled my way to being awake some time around 4 this morning, after being asleep for three hours or so. A dream involving a neighborhood I've seen in my head once or twice appeared, among other bits of scenery that seemed too familiar. At one point a trenchcoated man was following me out of the forest of horses trying to bite me, through the empty houses with bright porch lights, and down winding roads. I was on a bike, rushing home. It was getting dark and I couldn't get ahold of anyone to come and rescue me. He was approaching fast, and I slid into a dead end turn I knew quite well. I climbed up on a case of stairs and waited for him. He rolls up with his coat tails flying behind him and I'm a good ten feet above him. I walk to the ledge, he asks me how I'm doing and then realizes I'm about to lay down the law on his face. He tells me, "Now. Don't go using a machine gun. Those aren't good!" I concur. Who likes guns, anyways? (Silly boys, that's who. More about this later.) I manage to balance atop his handlebars, and gave him a swift kick to the face. But then I think maybe he caught my foot and I somehow made him melt. I've finally realized my full potential. My sub-conscious is telling me that I, am a bad. ass. I'm clearly wildly grateful for this, as I'm currently signing up for a karate duel in the parking lot of our local YMCA with the 8th graders. That's right. The EIGHTH graders. You'd think I'd be getting in over my head with measly 6th graders, but I think I'll step it up a notch here. You just wait and see.

After I woke up this morning I remembered opening a wedding announcement from a couple of friends of mine. I laid in bed for a good twelve minutes, debating whether or not I had actually opened this, or if I dreamed it up. It's sitting on my desk now. She's really young. He's. Not. She's American. He almost got deported recently. They've been dating for a few months. Prior to this she declared she had "given up on boys". I don't really know how this whole dating/marriage thing works, but going from that, to decorating invitations with little silver swirlies and silver embellishments is a large leap. I'm happy for them, really. I just don't know how it works.

Post-Morgan-Freeman-siting the other day, I drove out of a parking garage. I really enjoy parking garages for whatever reason. I think that when I was younger they reminded me of tunnels. They still do. I think they're neat. And the roofs are always cool. Always. I highly recommend them. After treating my car to resting in such a glorious spot, I drive up to the ticket booth and at this point, I'm kinda getting excited. First I see Morgan Freeman on the sidewalk, now there's a dreamy ticket booth dude. He stands up, and he's far taller than I am. Granted, I'm sitting in a car and he's standing on a platform. I notice the scruffy beard on his face, ink on his arm, and some sort of a book that he's reading. I quickly develop a crush on this man. His shirt's name tag said "Kite". So, Kite. If you're out there, somewhere... I have a crush on you. And I know from how you said the phrases "it'll be two dollars", and "...have a good one", that you obviously feel the same way. We should spend more time together. I like books. And I'm good friends with Morgan Freeman now.

Earlier this week I spent a bit of time listening to four or five guys from my church talk about cars, motorcycles, the military, and guns. I'm really into cars. I'm all for people driving fast on motorcycles. I'm supportive of the military and people wanting to defend this country. The best way to get me to mentally tap out of a conversation, is to talk about guns. It was unfortunate to hear these guys saying things about how the east coast is "soooooo much better!" because of the freedom to have machine guns and cannons. I have machine guns in my dreams, so I really shouldn't judge. And cannons are pretty legit. I'd turn mine into a coffee table if I had one. I hope Kite doesn't like guns. That will ruin all of my hopes and dreams. Someone find out for me.

Until then, I'm going to go make apple cider, read Time Must Have A Stop by Aldous Huxley, and hang out with my cat. I'm essentially 87. Don't hate.

Hyphens and House.

It finally happened. My 60-something year old father has sent his first "lol" in an e-mail to me. It was involving a link to a full episode of House, which I'm sure will be "lol" worthy with his "IT'S NOT LUPUS" and cane beatings. And him ripping his shirt off and taking hot and steamy showers. Ok. I made that part up. But let's not lie. House is dreamy. Beyond reason. And he's old. Which makes me potentially creepy, however, I'm just thinking of it as a practice for when I'm a classy cougar. Except I'll go after old men instead of 19 year old frat boys. I've got it all planned out.

I had a dream that my BFF died in her sleep. From a virus, which was actually a super-biochemically-transformed version of the swine flu. I eventually went on a manhunt for the ones responsible which turned out to be a mad cooperation. This is clearly a manifest of my strong disdain for Wal-Mart. I ended up in a car with a scrawny woman, a pansy young guy in the backseat, and we were ready to run over the guard in front of the virus-makers' factory. And the driver wimped out. Then I pulled out machine guns out of my shoes.

I don't understand why House has a team. They're always wrong, and they get in his way. They ought to turn it into a one-man show. This episode just made me say "OHHHH" out loud. I'll give them credit. Once again, it was House who made me say "OHHHH". Institute starts in 20 minutes and I'm still in sweats. Isn't that how it normally works?

My chopstick theory on love has been stolen. Right from underneath my feet. The carpet, under my feet, has been whisked out from under me and sold to the gypsies. Not that gypsies are unable to afford solid carpet for their gypsy homes. That's not what I'm getting at here. What I'm getting at, is that someone, somewhere, has had the same thoughts as I. And what do I think about this? Does it mean that we could possibly be soulmates, with our chordae tendineae so carefully and preciously intertwined? Is it possible, that this man, is the one for me?

I think not.
I think he is a heartless, idea stealing, pepper nose. Because nobody likes pepper in their nose. Try to keep up.

I need to sleep more. I'm pretty sure I pulled up next to Morgan Freeman this afternoon.