In my dreams. In smell-o-vision.
I usually hate posts that start with “Last night I had the strangest dream….” (And do you have Matthew whatsit stuck in your head now? Good. My work here is done.) But I’m going to tell you anyway and I’m blaming it on my ceiling fan, which rattles like a summbitch and kept waking me up. Well, that and the baby doing the friggin’ merengue in my uterus all. night. long.
I had walled up two very dead Mexicans, to be disposed of later. I’m not sure why I was diposing of them, or how they got dead, but there they were, in my rock wall, stinking. I don’t have a rock wall, mind, but in my dream, I did and it was lovely, covered in lichen and moss and, y’know, apparently a dead Mexican repository. On the other side of my lovely rock wall was a beautiful green field, the kind you’d see on a postcard from England. Emerald green grass, sheep grazing off in the distance, a copse of trees off to one side; it was gorgeous. In the green field was daysgoby. She had this navy blue pram, one of those old English jobs, the kind nannies push around manicured parks.
In it was her dead mother. Only every so often, the dead mother would get up out of the pram and do a little jig. She bore a scary resemblance to
After doing her dance, she’d turn into a three-legged black pig, complete with Cruella hair, and start hunting for truffles. As you do.
That’s the last time I have Doritos before going to bed.