I’ve been drinking less / exercising more lately.
Well, for the most part except for the incredibly lucid dreams / nightmares I’ve been getting to enjoy lately.
Alcohol pretty much puts a kibosh on your ability to remember dreams, so cutting it out has meant the usual litany of college and grad. school era anxiety dreams involving unfinished papers and giving classroom presentations with no clothes on, falling off of tall buildings and planes (I have severe acrophobia), and getting murdered in all manner of strange ways by former asshole employers and the occasional ex-girlfriend. (Reading a bunch of stuff about ISIS /I SIL /I S in Iraq / Syria yesterday was probably a bad idea. Pure nightmare fuel.)
Last night I bolted upright covered in sweat as a pack of deranged meth-heads entered my dad’s house while we were sleeping and tortured us to death on the living room floor. It was one of those really fucked up dreams where you know you should be running but your legs won’t move, and I even had a gun but my brain wouldn’t let me pull the trigger.
Stupid mind. I know you’ve got happy thoughts in there somewhere but this makes me want to guzzle four Mickey’s before I go to bed each night.
A lot of it is probably just my body adjusting to work hours again but still, I should probably be mainlining Prozac or something.
I mean, where are all the dream-world Carey Mulligans and Scarlet Johanssons when you need them? Why do I get the cannibal meth Islamic radicals and the overdue T. S. Eliot essay?