Henceforth now and forever complete babble and nonsense. Amen.

Rarely do I write about dreams unless it’s in my own personal diary, but this one was so inconclusive and silly and remarkably easy to remember that I had to get it down.

Last night I dreamt that I was on Family Feud, but instead of my kin surrounding me, I had my pals from College Station.  The only survey we guessed impeccably was What kind of toppings people liked on their hotdogs.  I didn’t even know there were so many choices, but apparently Dream Geena thinks chocolate icing on a piping hot sausage is delicious.  The host stood on a rickety platform and would only come down (float down, more like it, with bubbles.  We’re talking some pretty loopy visions) to kiss the contestants, which he did with thrusty, full-on tongue while gazing into your eyes.  The Louie Anderson of my dreams had the nasally voice, but not the unfortunate face.  He also happens to be a poseur because he totally stole that kissing thing from Richard Dawson. 

Does anybody remember that cartoon Bobby’s World?

Dang.  That is a throwback that I didn’t expect to arbitrarily pluck out of fat air.  And Bobby’s dad definitely has a Jewfro going on. 

For some reason I associate Bobby’s World with Louie Anderson, and apparently YouTube does too, but I can’t figure out why.  Anyway I think it’s based on the comedy of Howie Mandel.  Comedy?  Life story?  All I know is Howie Mandell is not as prevalent in my life, but considering my dream was about a game show and Howie Mandel hosts about 4,000 of them now, I’ll admit that my brain is making crazy connections I wouldn’t even think of.  That’s amazing to me.  Yesterday I thought about the same thing –I like to consider it as “meta-thinking,” which, by the by, sounds even cooler if you do it in a robotic voice: ME-TA THINK-ING BLEEPBLOOPBLIP– specifically I pondered how excellent my brain is at recalling songs, whether in listening or playing.  There is so much music crammed up in the Old Wrinkler.  It’s fantastic how easily old lyrics come to me no matter how old the song, so long as I dedicated myself to learning them.  Now that the internet makes access to lyrics so easy, I no longer have to sit around and listen to a song on repeat while writing down everything I hear.  I seriously did that as a child.  To Alanis Morrisette songs.  There were others, but oh.  I loved her, because my mom listened to the soft rock station, and everytime we were in the car together she’d be there with us, too. 

So from Louie Anderson to Howie Mandel to Alanis Morisette.. you’d think I’d have a plan for what I have to say before I type it but, nah.  For the rest of the dream I turned into a girl whose face I’ve never beheld before (how does your mind do that?) and then enjoyed a splendid outdoor lunch with Louie Anderson whose face turned into that of Javier Bardem.  Turns out this Javier/Louie hybrid fellow is very pleasant company. 

What the fudge.  I don’t know how I feel about these dreams.

The cold bug hadn’t plagued me for about a year now, but now it’s in full force in my throat.  It’s taken up residence and its sucky housewarming gift is a continuous flow of mucus and lung butter, and the cherry on top is a persistent hacking cough.  Pretty nasty, but at least I’m not in class right now as the cold reaches its worst.  A word of advice: don’t take Mucinex before going to seven classes straight on a Friday after 5 hours of sleep.  It spells nothing but disaster.  Not that I had a bad day, because it was a good one.  But craning your chin up slightly so that you don’t flow snot all over your notes is not an ideal way to spend your entire day.  …Or maybe it is. I can’t just assume.  There’s gotta be someone out there who likes it.  There always is one person for everything.

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