I spoke to my doctor yesterday, and today I picked up samples of a new drug I can take in addition to my antidepressant, if I need to. The plan is for me to cut my antidepressant dose in half for a few days, and if that fails to bring me out of it a little, to apply the other drug and hope it doesn't interact badly or give me some horrible side effect. If that doesn't work, I sacrifice a goat to the elder gods and stick live snakes in my pants.
What can I say? It's a plan. It's not a good plan, but then, there are no good plans for dealing with something like this.
Anyway, I promised I'd tell you about the stupid dream I had last night, and so I shall (edited from the email I sent bat_cheva
I dreamed that there was a huge museum haunted by a "ghost," like the Phantom of the Opera. This phantom was sort of like the self-appointed guardian of all the special items not on display, and all the items thought by museum staff to be lost or stolen. He had massive amounts of neat shit in his babe lair (which did not feature self-lighting candelabras, alas).
Anyway, this phantom was enraged because a restaurant/gift shop had been opened in his favorite part of the museum. ("Did I not instruct
. . . that the east wing was to be kept empty?
") He was raising merry hell by causing dire things to happen to wealthy museum patrons; no chandelier accidents, but there were several collapsing sculptures. The restaurant/gift shop staff had lived in terror, of course, ever since the groundskeeper had been found dead in the walk-in fridge.
I worked at the museum restaurant, and because I was expendable, I was told by my supervisor to find the phantom and tell him to knock off the shenanigans already, or they'd cut his funding. I went to the sub-levels below the museum, where he appeared in a melodramatically narrow and candlelit hallway. He had the cape and mask and everything, which was cool and all, but he looked like a cross between Marco Hietala* and Lucian. Now, neither of them are very big, so he was only about 5'7 and skinny. So there was this fuzzy-bearded, runty little Phantom, cursing the museum's archiving system in a very growly yet tuneful voice as he gesticulated madly and made whoosh
ing sounds with his cape.
There is probably no way I can explain how hilarious this was.
The kicker is that he wanted me to be his apprentice, his Christine, so that he could share with me the wonders of special collections, and make me into a great curator.
I woke myself up laughing before I could say yes.
I'd wonder where that dream came from, but given the contents of my subconscious, it is perfectly obvious.
It did make me wonder, though, if Michael Sheen can sing.
Anyway, I am dead tired, and tomorrow is a long day of catching up on crap I've been putting off. I have to attempt to sleep now, and hope I dream about something a little less ridiculous. Like Tom Welling. Or Megan Fox. Or, you know, both of them. Necking. In a museum.* Marco: singer and bassist for Tarot, bassist and part-time growler for Nightwish. Depending on the direction of the breeze, the fuzzy, fork-bearded Finn is my favorite frontman. His version of the Phantom of the Opera title track is not to be sneezed at.