Last night’s Nyquil-induced dreams were incredibly long and detailed — the kind that you can fall right back into after you wake up wondering what the hell is going on inside your skull. The only bits I can really remember vividly are of being at some sort of dinner theater place, an auditorium draped thick with equal parts velvet and age. My companion and I had front-row seats to some big event, and as we settled in to our seats and arranged our party around the table, the house lights dimmed. Before I quite realized what was happening, there was Tori Amos, being carried in front of the stage by a gaggle of underlings. She was gussied up in white, her hair pulled back from her face. She stopped in front of our table and took a look at my drink (some fruity cocktail in a wine glass) and stuck her finger in it. She swirled it round and round, a grin on her face. I wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or excited or what.
I blame this song‘s existence.
In the past week I’ve dreamt I was pregnant, all my teeth were falling out and that I had a bitchin go-kart.
Oh man, the losing-teeth dreams are the WORST. I have read that they indicate anxiety about your looks, but then someone once told me they indicate your anxiety about making a deal with the devil. That’s the one I really worry about.
You have a thing about sticking fingers in drinks, don’t you?
Oh my god, do I?!