The Pervert's Guide to Party-Crashing/Simple Man's Dream/WhisperingEmpanada ASMR/First You Wanna Kill Me, Now You Wanna Kiss Me...

A party was being thrown at my house. Slavoj Žižek crashed it, then got blitzed and ended up crashing on the couch on the back porch.

While this was going down, my sister was elsewhere. She did something foolish which caused her to take a rather nasty spill, earning her a large blood-blister on her chest, over her heart. This blood-blister was potentially life-threatening, so someone called an ambulance and she was rushed to the hospital. Me and my parents — who were alive — only found out about this after she returned home from surgery the next day, tearfully relating the story to us as she peeled the bandage on her left breast back, showing us where the blood-blister had been removed. Suffice to say, neither of my parents were pleased by this news.

* * *

I was a teenager back in high school. I had a new teacher, who was Alannah Myles — an Alannah Myles who was sometimes muscular, sometimes her familiar slender self.

She possessed mystical powers. At a dance, she used her powers to instill me with the courage to dance with a girl I had never seen at school before. So the two of us danced; we both had two left feet, but we enjoyed ourselves nevertheless.

Then the dance ended and the girl disappeared. Alannah told me the girl had been like me, a poor soul crippled by social anxiety. I was told I'd never see her again, but the purpose of this moment was never to set us up as life partners, but to kickstart our spiritual evolution.

Now is where the dream gets absolutely bonkers. This portion is so bizarre, my hamfisted descriptions can't do it justice. Turns out Alannah was one of many angels sent to Earth to kickstart the spiritual evolution of all of mankind. Myself and millions of other people around the globe had been chosen as the first recipients of this program. We were force-fed deep-fried, sausage-sized slugs; experienced Noah's Flood from the perspective of those who'd drowned; and forced to snort a powderized poisonous insect which burned at the touch and was 90+% fatal. All this and a series of other scenarios were meant to reinvigorate our empathy, though I'm pretty sure a good number of them were counterproductive.

The dream ended on a hopeful note for the humanity. A Rob Zombie cover of Bryan Adams' "Heaven" played as it came to an end, like a movie going to end credits.

* * *

The Marxist-Leninist YouTuber BadEmpanada

came to me while I was in bed. Leaning over my ear, he began reading in a low whisper some anti-Christian screed from a heavy ML textbook he was carrying. I knew he was only trying to get a rise out of me, so instead of lashing out, I smiled, saying he was an amazing ASMRtist.

* * *

Mira Furlan spit in Kevin Sorbo's face.

Then they kissed passionately with full tongue action.

101 Ways to Accept Payment for Stolen Money

In a big city, amidst traffic, a work crew was excavating the street. Having broke through the asphalt, they uncovered in the underlying earth what were assumed to be a number of fossilized angel skeletons.

(O hai, influence.)

Right away I could tell these weren't the remains of real angels — the skulls were oversized and exaggerated, the skeletal structure cartoonishly simple and lacking articulation — yet for reasons I couldn't fathom, everyone believed these to be genuine angel fossils.

The dream switched gears. I found myself watching a woman as she rose from a sea of blue paint. She was Hispanic/Latina and incredibly voluptuous.

(Due, in part, to silicone.)

I felt my slide whistle rising. But as the paint ran off her body, I could see she was covered in tattoos. There were tattoos running down her arms; four large tattoos on her back; several tattoos on her backside. Since I find heavily tattooed women gross, my carbonated soda went quickly flat.

What follows is fragmentary, imperfectly recalled.

I was in the hallway of a shabby motel/hotel. An oldtimer

(man, woman, don't recall which)

had accidentally dropped some cash. Some fugly punks — one of whom reminded me of Lil Wayne

— tried stealing the money. I scooped it up before they could snatch it and took off. Through the turning, twisting corridors I ran, trying to catch up to the oldtimer, to outpace the punks.

I don't recall the intervening details, but I eventually found myself inside a clean, upscale bar/restaurant. Now I was an old man. I was seated at a table, and seated with me at the table was ... Somebody™.

I was led to believe that by passing the oldtimer's money over to Somebody™, the oldtimer would get their money back in due course. As I exchanged the money, however, Somebody™ gave me a cheque in return. I then realized Somebody™ was in cahoots with the punks I'd met earlier, that he was paying me for stolen money.

(Dream logic, amirite?)

Billy Dee Williams, who was working there as a server, carrying a platter laden with hors d'oeuvres stuck with fondue forks, happened to witness this transaction. Incensed, he took the fondue forks and attacked Somebody™ and his punk cronies, stabbing them with the forks.

I recall the tattooed bimbo making a brief, unremarkable reappearance. I weighed the pros & cons of making a weiner-taco with her.

(CON: Fugly tattoos, are Fugly. PRO: Phat ass, is Phat.)

Then the dream ended.