naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Tootsie Pops!)
Because I am all kinds of feeling like crap today, here's something fucked up and hilarious to lighten the mood.

These roosters have been specially bred to have a very long crow. They sound like Godzilla. It is fucking badass.

Warning! Sudden horrible noise! Requires sound, but don't turn it up too loud! Those with headphones, take care.



Naturally, these birds belong in entertainment:



(I KID WITH LOVE.)

I really want one of those screaming as my ringtone.

As awesome as they are, I am really glad that these things don't live near me.

Also, if I had the money, I would totally pay [livejournal.com profile] ursulav to paint me a corpse-painted, bullet-belted, nail-studded, death rooster screaming in the middle of that one forest that shows up in all the band publicity shots.

Cock jokes commence in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Tootsie Pops!)
Because I am all kinds of feeling like crap today, here's something fucked up and hilarious to lighten the mood.

These roosters have been specially bred to have a very long crow. They sound like Godzilla. It is fucking badass.

Warning! Sudden horrible noise! Requires sound, but don't turn it up too loud! Those with headphones, take care.



Naturally, these birds belong in entertainment:



(I KID WITH LOVE.)

I really want one of those screaming as my ringtone.

As awesome as they are, I am really glad that these things don't live near me.

Also, if I had the money, I would totally pay [livejournal.com profile] ursulav to paint me a corpse-painted, bullet-belted, nail-studded, death rooster screaming in the middle of that one forest that shows up in all the band publicity shots.

Cock jokes commence in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (BTiLC Crazy Problem)
I actually dreamed this.

It was Halloween and I was attending a costume contest at a museum (dressed as a bellydancing superhero). I and all the other contestants went to the museum bar to knock back a drink or two before judging began.

The costumes were pretty amazing. Someone was a robot penguin, there were at least two different kinds of wolf man, a genuine duck in a priest's collar, the requisite vampires (none of whom sparkled), some really swell fairies, a steampunk leprechaun (this one never should have happened), the actual Boromir, an ape in a human costume, and a very convincing pirate complete with wooden leg.

I sat next to the pirate and listened to him tell the story of how his leg had been severed in his sleep by a ninja parrot, ruining his career as a professional dancer and forcing him into a life of being an extra in pirate movies. When judging was set to begin, we got up, and he staggered and almost fell over. I thought he was drunk, but his leg was gone! Someone must have stolen it to keep him from winning the contest.

Horrified, we searched the room, reasoning that a wooden leg would not be easy to hide. We didn't find anything, but several times I came back to the duck, who just plain looked suspicious. There was some cloth in its beak, and some splinters. I grabbed it just as it was about to break for cover.

Its costume came apart in my hands, the beak and feet falling away to reveal a large, black, and rather ninja-like parrot.

"That's the parrot who stole my leg!" the pirate exclaimed.

Momentarily stunned, I stammered "Why the hell were you dressed like a duck?!"

"Because," the parrot said in the sort of voice that would be rendered in wiggly capitals if it were in a comic book. "Nobody would suspect a duck of stealing a man's leg."

And then everyone laughed and we made the duck give the pirate's leg back.

. . .

Most people don't have dreams like this, do they? They just go to sleep and dream about who knows what for a few hours and then wake up feeling just as sane as they did before they went to sleep, in addition to feeling well-rested. Most people don't have to wonder about the drug content of their drinking water, is what I'm saying.

I've dreamed a lot of weird things, just check the "dreams" tag, but this is a new one in my book.

I did not win the costume contest, by the way, but I am proud of myself for trying.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (BTiLC Crazy Problem)
I actually dreamed this.

It was Halloween and I was attending a costume contest at a museum (dressed as a bellydancing superhero). I and all the other contestants went to the museum bar to knock back a drink or two before judging began.

The costumes were pretty amazing. Someone was a robot penguin, there were at least two different kinds of wolf man, a genuine duck in a priest's collar, the requisite vampires (none of whom sparkled), some really swell fairies, a steampunk leprechaun (this one never should have happened), the actual Boromir, an ape in a human costume, and a very convincing pirate complete with wooden leg.

I sat next to the pirate and listened to him tell the story of how his leg had been severed in his sleep by a ninja parrot, ruining his career as a professional dancer and forcing him into a life of being an extra in pirate movies. When judging was set to begin, we got up, and he staggered and almost fell over. I thought he was drunk, but his leg was gone! Someone must have stolen it to keep him from winning the contest.

Horrified, we searched the room, reasoning that a wooden leg would not be easy to hide. We didn't find anything, but several times I came back to the duck, who just plain looked suspicious. There was some cloth in its beak, and some splinters. I grabbed it just as it was about to break for cover.

Its costume came apart in my hands, the beak and feet falling away to reveal a large, black, and rather ninja-like parrot.

"That's the parrot who stole my leg!" the pirate exclaimed.

Momentarily stunned, I stammered "Why the hell were you dressed like a duck?!"

"Because," the parrot said in the sort of voice that would be rendered in wiggly capitals if it were in a comic book. "Nobody would suspect a duck of stealing a man's leg."

And then everyone laughed and we made the duck give the pirate's leg back.

. . .

Most people don't have dreams like this, do they? They just go to sleep and dream about who knows what for a few hours and then wake up feeling just as sane as they did before they went to sleep, in addition to feeling well-rested. Most people don't have to wonder about the drug content of their drinking water, is what I'm saying.

I've dreamed a lot of weird things, just check the "dreams" tag, but this is a new one in my book.

I did not win the costume contest, by the way, but I am proud of myself for trying.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (BTiLC Crazy Problem)
I have to say that so far, of the progesterone side effects, I much prefer the dizziness and disorientation to the fits of uncontrollable rage.

My hands feel really far away, and my forehead feels older than the rest of me. I mean, I could look forward to this.

I think I will call my doctor, because this is awesome, but probably not what he intended. And I am still a gore-spewing superhero, so the drug is fail.

RAAAAAAAAAAH!
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (BTiLC Crazy Problem)
I have to say that so far, of the progesterone side effects, I much prefer the dizziness and disorientation to the fits of uncontrollable rage.

My hands feel really far away, and my forehead feels older than the rest of me. I mean, I could look forward to this.

I think I will call my doctor, because this is awesome, but probably not what he intended. And I am still a gore-spewing superhero, so the drug is fail.

RAAAAAAAAAAH!
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (SAMURAI FACE!)
I dreamed about space pirates raiding alien planets. My crew began taking an unhealthy interest in the local fauna. At one point, one of the pirates (who sounded exactly like Jeff from Coupling) had this to say about genetically engineered animals:

"You can't put a thousand eyes on a sheep and still have room for a functioning vagina."

I just . . . I have to live with this brain, you know? And it's really not all it's cracked up to be, when thousand-eyed sheep with no vaginas are all I remember about what was a really cool dream with a really great plot.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (SAMURAI FACE!)
I dreamed about space pirates raiding alien planets. My crew began taking an unhealthy interest in the local fauna. At one point, one of the pirates (who sounded exactly like Jeff from Coupling) had this to say about genetically engineered animals:

"You can't put a thousand eyes on a sheep and still have room for a functioning vagina."

I just . . . I have to live with this brain, you know? And it's really not all it's cracked up to be, when thousand-eyed sheep with no vaginas are all I remember about what was a really cool dream with a really great plot.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (KILL! KILL! KILL!)
Here's the all-purpose Weird Things picture dump, containing some pictures of Mathurin eating a dead rat (which you will have to click on to see, so don't worry), and some random Nazi-related strangeness.

Here you go. (It should go without saying, but won't, obviously, that if you are really strongly upset by a rat meeting its death at the claws of a "domesticated" animal, you should click the text links in the latter half with care.)

Nazi Daycare. )

Now. Let me tell you a story about Mathurin.

I'm not sensitive about "cause of death = cat," but you may not want to eat while reading this.

When I was but a young pup, and Mathurin barely more than a journeyman killer, I came home from school one day to see a white plastic bag on my parents' normally immaculate front porch.

"What is this?" I asked.

Mother pointed vengefully at the bag. "That is what I found on the porch this morning. Look. Go on. Look."

I'm expecting to find . . . I don't know what. My mom has always been a little bazokko if you know what I mean, so there could have been anything in that bag.

What I found was a dead mourning dove, perfect, not a feather out of place. "Oh!" I exclaimed. "It's so beautiful!"

"Your cat did that. Just look what he did!"

"But the body is perfect. How do you know it was -- eeeeeUUURRRGH!"

Because I'd pulled it out of the bag and turned it over. The upper right side of its head was gone, leaving nothing but the empty skull, which had been licked out clean like an eggshell. I couldn't help it. I began laughing. It was just like him, that nasty little killer.

Well, that became his trademark. He would kill squirrels, rats, birds, mice, rabbits, anything he could get his claws into. And he would eat their brains. So he became known as Mathurin, Eater of Heads. This is but one of many lame reasons that I love the movie "The Relic." Because clearly the monster, which munches human heads like Tootsie-Pops, is some sort of relative.

Mathurin continued this legacy of decapitation throughout his long stay at my parents' house, but his infamous career was cut short when we brought him home to live out the rest of his ungainly life cradled gently upon our bosoms.

Which brings me to the present.

After we went to see the Narnia movie, we were hungry. Into the kitchen Sargon went, only to hear a horrid sort of gnashing coming from within the curtained breakfast nook. There was, furthermore, a suspicious absence of Mathurin, who usually sharks about our ankles whenever we venture anywhere near the kitchen, screaming at the top of his lungs. This is because he is always hungry. Clearly. Because he will eat anything.

That was when Sargon noticed the bloodstain.

And behind the curtain, what should he find? A guilty face, hunched over the grisly spoils of his crime.

Evidently, one of the rats we breed for snake food (yeah, yeah, I'm a carnivore, my pets are carnivores, deal) escaped, and Matt caught it. And ate half of it, starting with the head. And what should my husband do but take pictures of the whole thing? Or, rather, the half thing. Warning -- THAT link leads to a rather grody picture that is probably only funny to me because, well, I'm bent.

After owning 20+ cats in the course of my life, I tend to be far more pleased than less when they kill something, and frankly, it amuses the shit out of me when they betray themselves for the soulless little eaters of flesh that they are.

So. That's the weirdness.

Oh, yeah. For those of you who always wanted to see the Men-Men bag? There's a picture here.

I now go back to writing silly porn.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (KILL! KILL! KILL!)
Here's the all-purpose Weird Things picture dump, containing some pictures of Mathurin eating a dead rat (which you will have to click on to see, so don't worry), and some random Nazi-related strangeness.

Here you go. (It should go without saying, but won't, obviously, that if you are really strongly upset by a rat meeting its death at the claws of a "domesticated" animal, you should click the text links in the latter half with care.)

Nazi Daycare. )

Now. Let me tell you a story about Mathurin.

I'm not sensitive about "cause of death = cat," but you may not want to eat while reading this.

When I was but a young pup, and Mathurin barely more than a journeyman killer, I came home from school one day to see a white plastic bag on my parents' normally immaculate front porch.

"What is this?" I asked.

Mother pointed vengefully at the bag. "That is what I found on the porch this morning. Look. Go on. Look."

I'm expecting to find . . . I don't know what. My mom has always been a little bazokko if you know what I mean, so there could have been anything in that bag.

What I found was a dead mourning dove, perfect, not a feather out of place. "Oh!" I exclaimed. "It's so beautiful!"

"Your cat did that. Just look what he did!"

"But the body is perfect. How do you know it was -- eeeeeUUURRRGH!"

Because I'd pulled it out of the bag and turned it over. The upper right side of its head was gone, leaving nothing but the empty skull, which had been licked out clean like an eggshell. I couldn't help it. I began laughing. It was just like him, that nasty little killer.

Well, that became his trademark. He would kill squirrels, rats, birds, mice, rabbits, anything he could get his claws into. And he would eat their brains. So he became known as Mathurin, Eater of Heads. This is but one of many lame reasons that I love the movie "The Relic." Because clearly the monster, which munches human heads like Tootsie-Pops, is some sort of relative.

Mathurin continued this legacy of decapitation throughout his long stay at my parents' house, but his infamous career was cut short when we brought him home to live out the rest of his ungainly life cradled gently upon our bosoms.

Which brings me to the present.

After we went to see the Narnia movie, we were hungry. Into the kitchen Sargon went, only to hear a horrid sort of gnashing coming from within the curtained breakfast nook. There was, furthermore, a suspicious absence of Mathurin, who usually sharks about our ankles whenever we venture anywhere near the kitchen, screaming at the top of his lungs. This is because he is always hungry. Clearly. Because he will eat anything.

That was when Sargon noticed the bloodstain.

And behind the curtain, what should he find? A guilty face, hunched over the grisly spoils of his crime.

Evidently, one of the rats we breed for snake food (yeah, yeah, I'm a carnivore, my pets are carnivores, deal) escaped, and Matt caught it. And ate half of it, starting with the head. And what should my husband do but take pictures of the whole thing? Or, rather, the half thing. Warning -- THAT link leads to a rather grody picture that is probably only funny to me because, well, I'm bent.

After owning 20+ cats in the course of my life, I tend to be far more pleased than less when they kill something, and frankly, it amuses the shit out of me when they betray themselves for the soulless little eaters of flesh that they are.

So. That's the weirdness.

Oh, yeah. For those of you who always wanted to see the Men-Men bag? There's a picture here.

I now go back to writing silly porn.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Helpless)
Hooo-kay.

Well, then.

I suppose it shouldn't surprise me, given the season. I dreamed about Nanny last night.

I walked into the den at her house. She was there, sitting on the couch like always. The air was very still, the light from the sliding door pale and oblique. She seemed to fill the entire room – not with a loving sense of her presence or anything like that, simply . . . an utter focus, like being in a room with a sleeping person. The room was empty but for her.

"Nanny."

"Yes."

"But you're dead."

"Yes."

There followed a long silence. I was not certain whether I slept or woke – neither felt real. I didn't come any closer.

"But . . . isn't it horrible being dead? Do you like it?"

"No."

"So, it's not so awful?"

"No."

"You're not scared of it?"

"No."

Overwhelmed with strangeness, I awoke clearheaded and completely untroubled.

Only those that knew her would understand how extraordinarily unlike her this was. She was, in life, a fluttering, fussy person who would hold you down and force Southern hospitality down your throat until you choked on it. She could never say anything monosyllabically, and required at least five minutes and three digressions to answer even the most direct question. I don't think, in twenty-seven years, I heard her say simply "Yes" or "No."

How very strange.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Helpless)
Hooo-kay.

Well, then.

I suppose it shouldn't surprise me, given the season. I dreamed about Nanny last night.

I walked into the den at her house. She was there, sitting on the couch like always. The air was very still, the light from the sliding door pale and oblique. She seemed to fill the entire room – not with a loving sense of her presence or anything like that, simply . . . an utter focus, like being in a room with a sleeping person. The room was empty but for her.

"Nanny."

"Yes."

"But you're dead."

"Yes."

There followed a long silence. I was not certain whether I slept or woke – neither felt real. I didn't come any closer.

"But . . . isn't it horrible being dead? Do you like it?"

"No."

"So, it's not so awful?"

"No."

"You're not scared of it?"

"No."

Overwhelmed with strangeness, I awoke clearheaded and completely untroubled.

Only those that knew her would understand how extraordinarily unlike her this was. She was, in life, a fluttering, fussy person who would hold you down and force Southern hospitality down your throat until you choked on it. She could never say anything monosyllabically, and required at least five minutes and three digressions to answer even the most direct question. I don't think, in twenty-seven years, I heard her say simply "Yes" or "No."

How very strange.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Wow. Ever have one of those evenings that starts out normal, and then takes a turn straight down the mineshaft, leading you to wonder just when you bought yourself an all-day pass to the freak show?

Yeah.

Last night as Sargon and I were passing the Bama pie factory on the way home from the store, I swerved to avoid something in the road -- a hat and white cane.

"Holy shit," I exclaimed. "Was that some blind guy's stuff in the middle of the road?"

There was a guy lying beside the bus stop sign about five feet away. Concerned, we turned right around and headed back to the scene. I stayed with the car and the cell phone while Sargon went to investigate, since this was late at night and this guy was, like, 250 pounds and might have been crazy -- you never can tell.

I watched in the rearview mirror as he grabbed stick and hat, and brought them back to the guy, who by this time was rolling back and forth on the ground. He looked fine, but wasn't rational at all, and kept saying that he wanted to die. Well, we called an ambulance, since he might've been hit by a car.

Sargon, trying to keep him calm, handed him his stick, whereupon he tried to choke himself to death with the lanyard.

The emergency worker's exact words were "What the fuck? Stop that shit!"

Pretty much my assessment.

They rooted out some ID, took a statement from my husband, and carried the blind guy away, but he was pretty clearly batshit, or so far gone suicidal that he was the next thing to it. I can only hope they manage to help the guy somehow, 'cause, man, I feel bad for anyone with that much despair.

It was all really weird and disturbing, and of course this dose of extra-strength crazy came on top of a day of dealing with complete morons online and in real life, so I was already feeling my last shred of sanity fluttering on the barbed-wire fence of life.

In good news, I just checked my numbers and I wrote over 3,000 words yesterday. If I bust my ass, I can crack 50,000 on this thing sometime tomorrow. Yay me!

Anyway, I'm off to try to donate blood again. Here's hoping I don't hurl or pass out when they stick the needle in.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Wow. Ever have one of those evenings that starts out normal, and then takes a turn straight down the mineshaft, leading you to wonder just when you bought yourself an all-day pass to the freak show?

Yeah.

Last night as Sargon and I were passing the Bama pie factory on the way home from the store, I swerved to avoid something in the road -- a hat and white cane.

"Holy shit," I exclaimed. "Was that some blind guy's stuff in the middle of the road?"

There was a guy lying beside the bus stop sign about five feet away. Concerned, we turned right around and headed back to the scene. I stayed with the car and the cell phone while Sargon went to investigate, since this was late at night and this guy was, like, 250 pounds and might have been crazy -- you never can tell.

I watched in the rearview mirror as he grabbed stick and hat, and brought them back to the guy, who by this time was rolling back and forth on the ground. He looked fine, but wasn't rational at all, and kept saying that he wanted to die. Well, we called an ambulance, since he might've been hit by a car.

Sargon, trying to keep him calm, handed him his stick, whereupon he tried to choke himself to death with the lanyard.

The emergency worker's exact words were "What the fuck? Stop that shit!"

Pretty much my assessment.

They rooted out some ID, took a statement from my husband, and carried the blind guy away, but he was pretty clearly batshit, or so far gone suicidal that he was the next thing to it. I can only hope they manage to help the guy somehow, 'cause, man, I feel bad for anyone with that much despair.

It was all really weird and disturbing, and of course this dose of extra-strength crazy came on top of a day of dealing with complete morons online and in real life, so I was already feeling my last shred of sanity fluttering on the barbed-wire fence of life.

In good news, I just checked my numbers and I wrote over 3,000 words yesterday. If I bust my ass, I can crack 50,000 on this thing sometime tomorrow. Yay me!

Anyway, I'm off to try to donate blood again. Here's hoping I don't hurl or pass out when they stick the needle in.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
[livejournal.com profile] wicked_wish is trying to help a friend place some homeless black kittens, and has informed us all that for some reason, black kittens are harder to adopt out.

The "reasoning" behind this is, in two words, fucked up. Superstition is alive and well, apparently. If you or a friend are near Atlanta, GA, and could possibly take in something fuzzy and cute, head over to Cherie's entry and follow the links to help. Also: pictures of cute black kittens.

In an effort to prove beyond the hairy shadow of a doubt that black cats are really fucking cute, I now give you The Mocus (also a picture or two of The Fish).

I should tell you that, yes, that is a yarn ball and a sunbeam, and no, I did not stage the photos. She crawled in my crochet box all by herself (after pulling out a whole row of stitches, but that's beside the point). Now I'm gonna let these speak for themselves.

Pictures of cats, and things not cats. )

Your assignment, if you want to cheer me up and maybe have some fun, is to either adopt one of those widdle black kittens, or write a haiku about any of these pictures. Because haiku is fun.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
[livejournal.com profile] wicked_wish is trying to help a friend place some homeless black kittens, and has informed us all that for some reason, black kittens are harder to adopt out.

The "reasoning" behind this is, in two words, fucked up. Superstition is alive and well, apparently. If you or a friend are near Atlanta, GA, and could possibly take in something fuzzy and cute, head over to Cherie's entry and follow the links to help. Also: pictures of cute black kittens.

In an effort to prove beyond the hairy shadow of a doubt that black cats are really fucking cute, I now give you The Mocus (also a picture or two of The Fish).

I should tell you that, yes, that is a yarn ball and a sunbeam, and no, I did not stage the photos. She crawled in my crochet box all by herself (after pulling out a whole row of stitches, but that's beside the point). Now I'm gonna let these speak for themselves.

Pictures of cats, and things not cats. )

Your assignment, if you want to cheer me up and maybe have some fun, is to either adopt one of those widdle black kittens, or write a haiku about any of these pictures. Because haiku is fun.

Hell-Cats!

Jan. 27th, 2005 02:17 pm
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
I seem to be doing a lot of cat posts. You will, of course, forgive me.

My cats have this thing they do every morning. I wake up, stagger out to the bathroom, then stagger back into bed and lie there for another half an hour. Sometimes I read, sometimes I just doze. While I do this, the cats come in and take turns purring and rubbing against me. They do it tag-team style, and each tags the other in with a brutal round of hissing and snarling.

Yes, they fight over me. Specifically, my belly, which is the warmest, comfiest spot on The Mother.

Generally, the Mocus wins, which is why it didn't surprise me to wake up this morning with her crouched on my chest like some horrible, primordial beast from a Frazetta painting, only much smaller and stinkier. She lay there and just kind of breathed in my face, with the kind of cat-halitosis that says "feed me."

"Geroff!" I growled, and she obliged by flashing her fat cat ass in my face, then leaping off the side of the bed.

I only realized things were amiss when I attempted to sit up, whereupon I discovered that I was bound tight to the mattress.

Here's where it gets weird. )

Our Sponsor

(Hope you enjoyed my little slice of surreality.)

link

Hell-Cats!

Jan. 27th, 2005 02:17 pm
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
I seem to be doing a lot of cat posts. You will, of course, forgive me.

My cats have this thing they do every morning. I wake up, stagger out to the bathroom, then stagger back into bed and lie there for another half an hour. Sometimes I read, sometimes I just doze. While I do this, the cats come in and take turns purring and rubbing against me. They do it tag-team style, and each tags the other in with a brutal round of hissing and snarling.

Yes, they fight over me. Specifically, my belly, which is the warmest, comfiest spot on The Mother.

Generally, the Mocus wins, which is why it didn't surprise me to wake up this morning with her crouched on my chest like some horrible, primordial beast from a Frazetta painting, only much smaller and stinkier. She lay there and just kind of breathed in my face, with the kind of cat-halitosis that says "feed me."

"Geroff!" I growled, and she obliged by flashing her fat cat ass in my face, then leaping off the side of the bed.

I only realized things were amiss when I attempted to sit up, whereupon I discovered that I was bound tight to the mattress.

Here's where it gets weird. )

Our Sponsor

(Hope you enjoyed my little slice of surreality.)

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
I have been having nightmares every night for the past couple of weeks. Sometimes merely unpleasant, sometimes truly frightening. Sometimes meaningless, sometimes fraught with subtext and inner pathos. I am sick of it.

You, like me, are probably asking "but why is she having them?"

As to that, I have a theory.

It could be bunnies.

Those of you who know about Aubrey Bunnsley, the vampiric stuffed rabbit that keeps my nightmares away, may be interested to note that he stopped feeding on my blood after that entry. However, that is when the nightmares began.

Matters became more complicated yesterday when, courtesy of my sweet husband, Bunnsley got a girlfriend (they will be married on Saturday), Audrey Jane. She looks a lot like Aubrey, only she is all white, and as near as I can determine, a girl. And she is equally evil, because last night I had the grandmother of all nightmares.

It was a tangle, a hellish melange of all the anxieties that afflict me in my dream state. I think it hit every single one. Reading this, you may well laugh – I hope you do – but you must remember that I am not making a word of this up.

Y'all are going to love this one. )

I know that this really means I am doing important soul-work, that I am working through Issues. One cannot see visions in the utter black midnight of depression, or in the high noon of happiness. Only in twilight, on the way up and the way down, do we pass that grey horizon where the twisted shadows dance. I'm on my way back up, swimming through the murk. I understand it's a symbol of progress.

But it sucks.

My rabbits aren't working, dammit. DO YOUR JOBS, YOU FUZZY BASTARDS!

Aren't all of you glad you don't have to live in my head?

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
I have been having nightmares every night for the past couple of weeks. Sometimes merely unpleasant, sometimes truly frightening. Sometimes meaningless, sometimes fraught with subtext and inner pathos. I am sick of it.

You, like me, are probably asking "but why is she having them?"

As to that, I have a theory.

It could be bunnies.

Those of you who know about Aubrey Bunnsley, the vampiric stuffed rabbit that keeps my nightmares away, may be interested to note that he stopped feeding on my blood after that entry. However, that is when the nightmares began.

Matters became more complicated yesterday when, courtesy of my sweet husband, Bunnsley got a girlfriend (they will be married on Saturday), Audrey Jane. She looks a lot like Aubrey, only she is all white, and as near as I can determine, a girl. And she is equally evil, because last night I had the grandmother of all nightmares.

It was a tangle, a hellish melange of all the anxieties that afflict me in my dream state. I think it hit every single one. Reading this, you may well laugh – I hope you do – but you must remember that I am not making a word of this up.

Y'all are going to love this one. )

I know that this really means I am doing important soul-work, that I am working through Issues. One cannot see visions in the utter black midnight of depression, or in the high noon of happiness. Only in twilight, on the way up and the way down, do we pass that grey horizon where the twisted shadows dance. I'm on my way back up, swimming through the murk. I understand it's a symbol of progress.

But it sucks.

My rabbits aren't working, dammit. DO YOUR JOBS, YOU FUZZY BASTARDS!

Aren't all of you glad you don't have to live in my head?

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