I can't sleep anymore because all night I've been having a long, only mildly interesting dream with a mildly interesting plot that kept getting interrupted by people telling me that I need to get out more. These people included my father, Oldest Bro, two people from high school whom I haven't seen since, a Jonas Brother (I blame that one on [livejournal.com profile] liketheroad, I'm not even sure WHICH Jonas Brother because I CAN'T TELL THEM APART), and two people who considered themselves experts on Blink-182 and kept trying to argue with me about them, despite the fact that the only thing I know for sure about Blink-182 is that they contain that Hoppus guy who's producing for Panic.

I can't tell whether my subconscious is trying to tell me I should get out more or whether it told me so through people whose opinion I have no reason to respect as a sort of opposite-day thing.
My subconscious would like you to know that Sarah is kickass, that she manipulates Zack like a pro, that she is already protective of Ryan, that...Maya looks good in silver thigh-high boots...?

The paparazzi were descending and she seems to have organised a commando force against them, involving all the bodyguards I recognise from fics and also Maya because everybody is scared of Maya.

Also apparently cell phones are back to being those things the size of shoeboxes from Saved by the Bell.

This dream was much more coherent but there's less I can say about it.

I'm kind of scared of what I'll be dreaming by the time we get to the Big Bang deadline; I honestly am.
Had very long and involved dream in which Zack apparently manages a gas station (?) that sells really good cake (??) when he is not playing boywrangler. I won points, apparently, by driving up blasting Green Gentleman. It's possible this is why the cake was so cheap.

Anyway, I and my boyfriend (unrecognisable, disappeared and reappeared according to conversational needs, tall) somehow wound up in Zack's house. I don't think we were ever invited, but somehow we were there, anyway. Being offered tea.

And then for some reason we had to run away very fast and Zack had a secret escape tunnel through the back of his closet (as all good bodyguards do?) and the secret escape tunnel went through his secret workshop. Did y'all know that when Zack is relaxing he likes to make very pretty tiny glass animals? I didn't know that.

(Hi, subconscious. You're weird, but I enjoy you anyway.)
I had the world's weirdest dream about being in hell last night.

Logan Echolls, opportunities to shoplift, and rusty giant robots were its most prominent features.
Last night I dreamed that I was evicted and that one of my favorite people in the universe ([livejournal.com profile] liketheroad, wave hi!) was one of my professors and had just e-mailed me that I was failing her class.

I'm grumpy now.
I don't know whether this happens to the rest of the world, but I have recurring dreams. They don't return night after night, or anything like that, but they come every three or four years, and they're usually long, plotty dreams with a mystery to solve. (I don't know, okay, my subconscious is a weird place.)

There's two or three of them that come along and replay themselves in my head every once in a while, and I've gotten so that, in my head, I recognise the plot and can navigate it more quickly to the end because I remember the solution to the mystery.

I added a new one to the list tonight--it's the first time it's recurred--and it was, "Oh, it's the one with the murdered clowns again." (I'm not killing them, fyi, just have to find out who is, but still. THE ONE WITH THE MURDERED CLOWNS.)

Hi, subconscious, what is the MATTER with you???

P.S. However, still not as disturbing as the Singer hitting on me dream. Possibly that is sad.
Awesomest. Dream. Ever.

I went to see Panic in concert and for some reason the venue was half the size of the tiniest college theatre I have ever seen (obviously, in real life Ryan would never agree to such a venue, the stage was practically the size of a postage stamp, but whatever) and for their last number they came and sat in the audience (mercifully both sparse and mostly adult sprinkled with very polite teenagers) and--get this--did a cover of 'As Long As You Love Me' by--whichever the hell pop group sings it. You have not lived until Spencer Smith has pointed at you and sung "where you're fruh-um", even if it did all take place in my subconscious.

Even better, while they were signing things for me, just before I woke up, I realised I was dreaming and got to reach over and ruffle Brendon's hair and tell Spencer that nobody else is going to make first move, so if he wants GSF, it'll have to be him, which was awesome--both Ryan and Brendon clearly knew what I was talking about and immediately gave him the most wistful, expectant looks ever. (Jon mostly looked confused. Why is it that in my head Jon spends the least amount of time reading slash about his band on the internet out of all of them?)

I love my subconscious sometimes. *happy sigh*
Then again, sometimes my dreamscapes suck, and involve people profiteering off the death and kidnapping of my kids.
I do not know why I am never (or rarely, at least) the hero of my own dreams. I'm not a protagonisty person, I guess.

However, I feel I should ALWAYS dream about a world where everybody is capable of shapeshifting, my preschool kids find cursed objects that the whole world is trying to find and exploit, and I--ME, THEY PICK ME--get to be the Cool Grown-Up they trust with the truth as they try to keep it a secret and break the curse.

Sometimes, darlings, my subconscious ROCKS.
That is the second time this week I have dreamed about my favorite 2-yo in a chicken suit sitting in the kitchen at my work and pretending to be a chicken.

I had a dream.

In which LJ changed the profile page layouts. It was ugly, ugly, ugly--worse than the "my LJ" page--and in order to change it you had to buy some new software and learn how to use it, which was a hugely complicated process.

I groaned and whined and paid for the software and then the phone started ringing. It was a representative of SixApart, who wanted to know what I thought was wrong. But I knew--from my flist, I think?--that what they really wanted was to hunt me down and kill me for disagreeing with their new aesthetic choices. I was terrified. I didn't pick up. But the phone beeped and was one of those old-fashioned message machines where you can hear the people leaving a message? And the voice said, "I know you're there. I know you're unhappy. Pick up." Long silence. "All right. If you won't pick up, we know your e-mail, too. We will get to you."

...thank you, subconscious.
*bursts out laughing*

Okay, no one else will understand why this is funny, but I once had a dream where Jensen was playing SGA's John Sheppard...*doubles over*

My subconscious wins!
So, I had the blinding revelation that hey, Reversathon's due in a little over a week. *duh*

I've made a few weak starts before, but nothing's really clicked. (Not to worry, mod, this is totally typical of my process.) I panicked.

I started brainstorming in earnest, and in the middle of this I fell asleep (update on workday from hell later.)

Actually, I frequently do this on purpose, brainstorming and then falling asleep--at least three fic plots have been realised for me by presenting me with Technicolor pictures. So, really, a good thing.

And I dreamed all right. Three of the plots I was thinking of, and about seven I wasn't (half of which were not, in fact, Harry Potter, but were Stargate: Atlantis instead) tumbled through my head, most of them logical, some of them great ideas, four or five actually fitting what I need to do for my Reversathon assignment.


In EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THESE DREAMS, the main characters were played by Jared and Jensen. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. I don't mean, you know, a Jsquared AU or anything, I mean the actors were playing the characters in my film-dreams.

Jared, surprisingly, makes a great Snape. And Jensen's wry John Sheppard is priceless. Make of that what you will.
I pulled my third-in-a-row all-nighter last night (and, exhausted, accomplished basically nothing) and when I finally got home I was forced to give myself permission to take a nap. Which basically means this paper is irretrievably late, and also it will probably suck because I'm still hideously exhausted and can't process anything.


Interpretation )
So now my subconscious is writing SGA/Studio 60 crossovers.

The part that I find disturbing? They're actually pretty good fic.
This morning was less than auspicious.

I still don't have a key, and the girl who does have one was late, so I had to sit out in my car till she got there. (The heater kicked in two minutes before she showed up, natch.)

Everybody's mom had to work early, so we had twenty "big kids" and five infants before eight o'clock in the morning.

Then one of the three-yos stood on one end of the snack cart and it tilted up, dropping a gallon of apple juice to the floor, bumping his head, and drenching two other children.

Then the other teacher who was supposed to have taken over from me ten minutes previously came in, promised to handle snack so I could do clean-up, and promptly disappeared for a further ten minutes.

Then one of the children threw a hissy fit over what was available for snack.

I got out of there and the song playing on the radio was "If you're going through Hell, keep on going!" immediately followed by "It's Five O'Clock Somewhere."

I sat at a traffic light and laughed till I nearly cried.

In other news I had a dream about a rape attempt last night (unsurprising, as Soulmate and I were discussing crimes against women in the media yesterday) but dream-me broke his nose and called the police. I'm proud of my subconscious.
Dear Subconscious:

I realise you are not the smartest or most aware bit of my brain. I realise that you are often oblivious to the facts, such as the ones, right now, where I had a horrible day at work yesterday, and tomorrow and Friday are going to be even worse, and I need my sleep, a good sound sleep, without waking up every five minutes because my brain cannot just sleep through the events in my dreams. I'm sorry for my logic, but I just have to sit up and go WTF? I realise you don't understand that this will make for a cranky day tomorrow, and I forgive you for the craziness.

That said...I didn't know I was this crazy. Steamy Robert Pattinson dreams in the Eloise universe with characters from Third Rock From the Sun, the All Things RPG *waves to Juice and Fabian as they tango by*, and Mister Roger's Neighborhood passing through? Involving melted FrootbytheFoot and hair gel?

...WTF, subconscious? Seriously, DOUBLE-YOU TEE EFF?????????

I had a totally wierd-ass Firefly dream last night, and I blame [livejournal.com profile] copperbadge and [livejournal.com profile] srichard in more or less equal measure.

There was titme traveling, and Mal as a space pirate (like, complete with bandana across head and sword in teeth) and Mal/River, and River being utterly River about the fact that one of their business contacts was friends with sharks. Like, actual fishy sharks, who killed him.

And Miranda wasn't Miranda, it was Meredith.

And there was some other stuff I've lost now, but...seriously wierd-ass dream.
I've got the croup, and I'm on heavy cough syrup of the puts-you-to=sleep kind, as well as steroids for the inflammation. Either the cough syrup is raising my temp or it's going up on its own...I seem to be sweating out the sickness, which is good, but I'm also fairly delirious. Just as it starts to wear off and I leave my coma-like state for somewhat wakefulness--means it's time for another dose--I have wierd dreams.

Flatmate asks me to take care of the cat. "What cat?" I ask. "This one," she says, looking puzzled and dumping a black and white monstrosity with bits missing out of its ear into my arms, where it purrs and cuddles. "The one that ate Keats, of course."

Soulmate gets home, she's mad at me because some wierd blonde girl in a green cloak keeps sending a hlogram of herself to the back door and it keeps trying to talk to her when she comes in.

Soulmate walks in through the front door, squees with flatmate, then turns to me, gently kisses me on the cheek and says, "I'm pregnant."

Friendiest waves over her shoulder without loooking back while I call to her, trying to pull my foot out of cement.

Talkative, a large purple dragon, sits with her hands folded over her belly and dispenses sage advice.

Redheaded Kid (currently in...um...some South American country, the name of which escapes me but it starts with P) is floating in the air, lounging and tossing popcorn into the air to catch in his mouth.

...and more. *sways drunkenly for next dose*
I dreamed the most wonderful, awful dream last night.

I dreamed that I was grocery shopping with my mother the Monday before Thanksgiving, and the phone rang, and it was Amy--my Soulmate. Hi, I said, pleasantly surprised. Good to hear from you, I miss you! What have you been up to?

I just wondered if you wanted me to come to your place or if you wanted to drop by here, she said.

Honey, you know I would love to come to New York...

No, here. I'm sitting in my front yard right at this moment.

Eeeeeee! ad nauseum.

And she was there, and we ate chips, and were happily plotting our surprise week together...and then I woke up.

Yeah, the awful part? I was lying in bed, happily thinking, "So we can go see GoF in the theatres now, and she can help me pick something for my new cloak, and I can send my Nano home with her, and we really have to remember to have her spend the night at least once..." and then my brain caught up with itself.

Right. That was a dream. As in it DOES NOT COUNT AS REALITY.

I nearly cried.

December, come quick!



April 2017



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