Stream of consciousness

Sometimes my dreams are intensely detailed (like the time we were driving home from Chicago after all the power had gone out in the US a la the TV show Revolution – which we don’t watch – and we had to be careful because there were Alpha Raiders everywhere. What’s an Alpha Raider, you ask? Just bands of renegade raptors that would collect people and steal all of their possessions to be sold on the black market. Yes, raptors. Or that dream where my husband was kidnapped by Fury [not played by Samuel L Jackson in this version] because he was part of some secret group in the Marvel universe and Fury was actually a villain and Mike was a threat to his secret plot to overthrow the good guys – I fall asleep during Agents of Shield a lot so my knowledge of actual storylines is limited) – and then sometimes I have dreams where all that happens is that I get to shower and finally shave my under arms. That’s what I remember from Friday night.

That, and I think James slept 6 straight hours for the first time in a while. Or else I was too konked out from fever and coughing all day that I don’t remember him waking up.

If he hadn’t spit up all the way down my back yesterday morning, chances are good that I would have stayed in my yoga pants and sleep shirt all day.

And if I hadn’t heard that gross, wet plop on the tile floor I probably wouldn’t have realized that he had done it. Location, location, location. Had I been standing on the carpet instead there’s no telling how long we would have been wearing his spit up.

But the good news is that since it did happen I took the time to shower and finally shave my underarms. It had only been since Thursday. I’m not sure what my dream was trying to tell me.


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