Thursday, October 14, 2010

I'm with the band?

Managed to remember smidgens of last night's dreams:


On a bus of some sort.  I'm with two girl friends from high school.  The windows are tinted, but we can see out to the vehicles on the highway.  I'm smiling at some people, making faces at others.  I'm not entirely sure what sort of bus we are on, or where we are going.  It starts off cramped.  I turn my head though, and the back of the bus has opened up somewhat.


There is music, loud, hard rock music.  I see guitars and drums and various PA equipment. A guy comes out of a back compartment, wearing some sort of mask, quite hideous.  As another couple of guys come out, more in masks, one dripping in stage blood, I realize we must be on a tour bus.  I figure it's either Slipknot or maybe Gwar.


Giggling excitedly over this turn of events (I'm not a huge Gwar or Slipknot fan, but hey rock stars are rock stars), the blood covered guy takes off the hood covering his head and reveals the face of a friendly, somewhat bookish looking gentleman.  He singles me out of the three of us, and asks if I've been to the upper level of the bus.


I shake my head no.  He picks me up in his arms easily and declares that I can't leave until I've seen the hot tub.  As he carries me up the stairs I hadn't noticed until that point I try to crane my neck to see the reaction of my friends, knowing the one friend will be particularly jealous, having a craving for the high life.  The upper level of the bus is a palatial mansion with aforementioned hot tub, large bar, plush couches etc.

Alarm.  Roll over.  Snooze.  Close eyes.

My youngest daughter has a huge eye infection and is crying.  I'm trying to clean the gunk away while explaining to her that once we've got her eye clear we can give her some drops.   However, as I'm wiping the gunk, it comes away in long loopy strands, and i can imagine that I'm pulling away some kind of membrane that must be reaching back towards the back of her skull, there's so much of it.

Alarm.  Awake time.

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