Thursday, May 30, 2013

James McAvoy Couldn't Save Me

So, I dreamed that hubby and I (hubby was James McAvoy, which I thought was rather nice of him) were spies.  Not just run-of-the-mill spies, but "if you get caught we don't know you, you're out in the cold" spies.  We'd captured . . . someone.  Some diplomat or counterspy or something like that.  Who just happened to be Joss Ackland.  Of course. Who else would he be?  He was unconscious, and we'd jammed him into a fifty pound bag of dog food (empty, other than Mr. Ackland, of course) and I was holding the bag rolled shut and jammed down at my feet in the car.

A faded blue 70s model Chevy, if I'm remembering right.

We were headed for some safehouse.  It was disguised as an old, decrepit "folk" Victorian home, just shy of "mansion" territory.  Much like the old place we pass every weekend on our way to the Farmer's Market, strangely.

As we made our way down a long, dark hall with warped wooden floors and peeling wall paper, Mr. Ackland began to stir.  I told hubby to hurry, that he was waking up.  We got to the room at the end of the hall and made a beeline for the closet.  See, the back of the closet was a false wall, and beyond was . . .

The afterlife waiting room from Beetlejuice.  No, no one from Beetlejuice was there, but it was that room.  That room, and it was full of spies waiting for assignments, spies waiting to be debriefed, etc.

Just as we began dragging the now struggling-in-the-dogfood-bag Mr. Ackland through the closet, it happened.  We'd been followed.

And a firefight ensued.

In the fray, I was shot.  At that point, I found myself watching from behind and above.  Watching as, shot, I shattered.  Like a mirror, I shattered. In fact, I WAS a mirror, and the long, bright shards of me collapsed in a shiny pile on the floor next to the wall.

And then I woke up.

I love my brain.  I love my husband.  But when my brain makes my husband James McAvoy?

Well, that, my friends, transcends mere love.

I have NO idea who this picture belongs to--I found it on a web search, clicked to find out whose it is (so I could ask permission and properly attribute), and wound up on a site rife with naked women and porn links.  It's an absolutely lovely pic, though.  I'll be glad to remove it, should the owner so desire.  


Tonights dietary adventure?  Fake hotdogs (Lightlife hotdogs) and with fake American Cheese (Veggy) on lower-carb whole grain bread with organic mustard and ketchup.  With Farmer's Market corn on the cob (steamed, no butter or salt, of course), steamed broccoli, and salad.  Dessert?

Pear, apple, and watermelon juice.  

This is gonna be tasty.  I hope.  I'll let you know.

And now, three hours later?  It WAS good!  The hotdogs weren't the BEST, but they were good, they were palatable.  The texture still needs some work, but with melted vegan cheese and some ketchup and mustard?  Perfectly fine--even the boy liked them!  And the juice?



Had a sad while today, after yet another over-the-top religious bit of whatever came skidding across my Facebook wall from an old friend.  She used to be pretty with it, pretty stable and happy, but a hard divorce and a subsequent relationship with a freaky, out-of-control, Libertarian survivalist ala Nugent really broke her.  I remember hearing it in her voice, knowing that she was getting more and more out there, more and more politically disconnected and extreme.  All the while, her drinking was becoming increasingly worrisome.  Three hour phone calls, so disjointed, so absolutely drunken, sometimes from work (her line of work wasn't well-suited to sloppy drunkenness).  Listening to her puke her stupid guts out over the phone, then having her ask, days later, "Did we talk the other night?  I don't really remember . . . "  

She had, in college, all the makings of someone who was going to keep growing, keep honing those critical thinking skills, but it didn't happen.  She's sunk into the swamp of falling for every Snopes-worthy hoax and posting increasingly strident religious memes.  She doesn't really seem to "get" social media, and I feel really bad for her.  I don't think she's happy, but I don't want to argue "faith" with her because I think clinging to that might be the only excuse she has for staying relatively sober.  

What a sad mess.  Not sure what to do, since I'm sure any attempt to reach out would be disastrous, and she seems very insecure and unstable.  So I guess I'll just let her gawdawful memes wash across my wall and keep my fingers still.  


Speaking of silly mythologies and gullibility, I just came across the friend of a friend's Facebook page.  His disjointed, failed-fartsy, barely literate attempt at wishing her good luck relocating led me to him.  Ever see the annual "worst fiction ever" contest?  This guy?

Absolutely a contender.

Anyway, so I check this guy's wretched page, and it turns out he's a "medium, psychic, spiritualist, and EMPATH."  He has, apparently, a "spirt" guide.  

Oh, goodness. Oh, my.  I may actually injure myself laughing.  My poor AURA is bright pink with mirth, and the VIBRATIONS I'm sending out can likely be felt for miles.  

There's a fortune to be made out there.  If only I could bring myself to manipulate and exploit the gullible.  But I can't

I just can't.  


And that's it.  Here's some ugly:

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