Freaking Friday (at last)

I'm sick. I hate being sick. I don't remember being so susceptible to stinking colds and flus as a kid. Seems like it only got worse after my early- high school-dustbunny indoctrination. Say no to drugs, people. Don't try something just on the premise that you could end up loving it forever.

Case in point. I ran out of sleepy pills about 7 days ago. I don't feel any withdrawals or irritation, thank buddha. The funny part is now I am sleeping. I actually get tired like a normal person at 10 PM because I'm not enjoying my high. My sleep has been heavy (no snoring since the weight lost on the starvation diet) and I am dreaming for the first time in years.

I dream of real things. Somehow that makes sense because right now, real life is the scary part for me.

Conversations with friends:
I dreamed that I was talking to my friend who I am trying to convince he needs to come to Crittersville for Thanksgiving. No one seems to believe me when I tell them that everyone loves my family. More than I do. I promise. Ask anyone (except for my lovers). Anyway, it must be really important for me to convince this friend because I dreamed about it. When I called him the next morning, I had to do a weird double-take because I could swear my dream was real.

Ghost Hunting and Powder Snorting:
I don't know what the hell that is about. I've been talking about ghost hunting for a week now, and I think I found a compadre who has the same attitude about it. If we approach it rationally, and with an eye for the historical aspects of it, we may be able to convince Z.

So my dream last night was of ghost hunting at some creepy campground in the woods. Some female I know (but I can't figure out who it is) comes up to me, grabs my shoulder, and says,
"I left something in the bathroom for you."

I walk in there and open up the stall door. Sure enough, she has left me a present on top of the TP holder. A nice amount, too.

So I sit there on the toilet and prepare to scrape it into a little silk drawstringed sack ( I once made these obsessively and gave them away to people. Stuffed with potpourri, drugs or a fortune cookie, they made people happy somehow. Maybe since I'm completely broke I'll start making them again.)

The campground cops walk in, and are looking for me a la "Witness"
(http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0090329/). I end up spilling some on the floor through the crack on the backside of the mounted TP holder. Slowly my mind returns to really horrible desperate strung-out days, when it was normal to hunt on the floor with a straw up your nose.

And I wake.

Watching Way too much Nip/Tuck:

I'm a newfound Nip/Tuck addict. I absolutely detest the idea of plastic surgery, which is weird because I don't have the nasty factor most people do. I was one of those freaks who was given a really good quality microscope set in second grade, and I enjoyed dissection.(Damn you people. I told you to read the San Francisco Chronicle's weekly special on Golden Gate Bridge suicides. Yesterday was suicide from the perspective of the coroners. Hence, the nastiness factor.
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2005/11/02/MNG9UFH43N1.DTL)

In the last two episodes of Nip/Tuck, these bitches are running an after-plastic-surgery-care spa. Their first patient is about 50, but looks 35. She admits that she has been slathering a certain bodily emission on her face for years. In fact, she tells them that it is her son's only chore in the house. Ewww. The bitches freak out, then decide to market it as their signature product.

My jaw drops, and remains that way for the next hour watching TV.

* Note: I don't usually refer to women as bitches so casually, but the lead female, actress Joely Richardson, was a really shitty-bad nazi in one of my favorite Melanie Griffith movies, "Shining Through".

So in my dream I am actually considering this as a moisturizer. I've been whining for a week about how winter is really horrible for my skin - makes me all dried out and yucky. So my focus on a good moisturizer is apropos.

I have a friend who made the mistake once of telling me that her man was way into Jackson Pollack-esque splatter displays on her lovely face. Unfortunately, now all I envision when I have those brief three second mental pictures ( a la Tourette's syndrome, but more visual than auditory) of my friend and her man doing it, I see the splatter effect. It's horrible, I know.

This is the effect of Post 70s porn, people. Classic porn from the late '60s and '70s would never have shown such a rite on such a consistent basis. Now every modern porn has face splattering. Think about it. We have two, maybe three generations of virile teenage boys learning that face splattering is sexy. No, No, No, No, No. AND No.

It's not that it is ucky to me, I just find it disrespectful. It's akin to grabbing the back of a woman's head while she is - um - performing something really nice for a man. That's just rude. If she has no rhythm or makes inappropriate head jerks or something, just tell her what to do. Don't allow her to continue so haphazardly. No one needs to perpetrate the now-common misconception that gay men give better head. I'll be damned.

(Please keep in mind that I only recently discovered that nearly everyone I know believes I am a true Aggressive/Aggressive. No wonder lesbians love me. Explains a lot about how I am not incredibly keen on the idea of a man exhibiting extreme aggressive/aggressive sexual behavior. I need to appreciate that other people are different, I know. It's okay for women to be passive. I guess.)

So I told Z about my dream of a new regenerative protein-based moisturizer. NO. I promise. I haven't gone there. I'm still stuck in my vain perception that my genetics are going to produce beautiful skin for me well into middle age.

But if I find another wrinkle, or get accused again of being in my mid-thirties, I swear to Buddha I may reconsider.
.............................................................................................

So what is the point here? Couldn't tell you. My head is stuck in this congested cloud of fog. I'm looking forward to a nice weekend in bed. I'm not going to stress about this stupid house I'm trying to buy (which has turned into a debacle of horrific proportions), packing, or housecleaning.

Z bought "The Stand", so I can sit home and start freaking about the Flu Pandemic. More on that later.



















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