picking my nose in my sleep
It was one of those dreams that had something of a setting but no set. I was offered a fictional drug that I seemed to remember as real from my extreme youth, a little pile of white powder and so I took it.
The next thing I knew Katy Perry is being a bitch to me — like that waddling-fat power-drunk Jack-in-the-Box manager whom I endured through the open drive-up window years ago loudly remonstrating with a young victim employee while waiting for some crap food to make me sick — like fucking bimbo pop singer is holding my station in life over my head for consuming this dread substance. I'm all totally pfeh and wtf and bewildered and just walk off.
There's sort of a terrain, and whenever anything happens there's almost a building, but really it's all just an abstract space at any of the episodes cohering and uncohering and there are instants of dirt road and old guy assessing me for marriage material.
Then I'm locked in the shifting world of cyber imperatives — almost like I'm a day trader needing a hawk eye on the ticker — Danger, Will Robinson — a big green button looms up that I think I should click to make my way out of a death penalty situation, but there's a booger the size of Liz Taylor's diamond, and as hard, in my right nostril and that's the emergency I choose to address before I wake up needing to pee.
Was that the right choice?
pipe up any time....