Don't count when I count.

First nightmare in a long time last night. It lasted maybe 3 seconds. In the dream I was lying in bed in a low-lit room, as if it were lit with white christmas lights alone. Make-out kinda lighting you could say. I saw the latter half of a cat whip by at the edge of my visual field. Next thing I know, the cat - somehow half-man, half-cat now - has paws on my temples (bilaterally) and is pushing inwards with it paws. I cant see it but I know it's there, and that it's big. It is speaking in a low muddy voice that made me think I was about to be killed. It was nasty. I think it was Pussums, pre-incarnated, come a'down to haint me.

I was yelled at by a patient for 65% of the day. By Little Man T, I shall call him. His right leg is amputated below the knee, he has a feeding tube coming out of his stomach and a large metal contraption sticking out of his left thigh which is holding his femur together, along with a head injury, so you know, we'll cut him some collective slack. First he wanted to give me a hug. Then he wanted to give me a kiss. Then, the world turned inside out like a pocket on a pair of cords right out the dryer, and he said he hated me. Any question I would ask him, the answer would be "Yes please", followed immediately by "No, what are you doing!". Then when transferring him from his wheelchair to his bed, I counted one two three. "Please! Dont Count When I Count!" Somehow it is so much sadder when he uses the word "please".

I went to the Soap Plant in search of curious birthday presents, etc after work. Amid the books on fetish art, female pirates, anime; amid the "Homer Simpson's pet monkey" keychains, scented candles, tantra calendars, Domokun stuffed...things, Spongebob lunchboxes and Emily Strange journals, I started to feel cheesed out by the novelty of it all, and left.

Did you know that "America (The Book)" from Jon Stewart et al is formatted like a high school civics text? It's even smells gluey and has a stamp on the inside front cover for name, class and year. I never had a high school civics class you see.

Last comment: I'm not above watching trash - those who know me know I have a penchant for trash, ok? But I just dont understand PEOPLE WHO WATCH THE OC as a "guilty pleasure" (that phrase is so torn and frayed, someone please make up a new one). I mean, a subplot involves Rich Anorexic Girl #1 having a secret affair with a....Latino yardman! They call him the "yardguy", as in "You cant have a crush on him, he's a yardguy!" but really, every time they say "yardguy", they mean "brown guy". Also, it's a show that employs a lot of "welding" as my dad would say. He'd go, "Jesus, look at the welding on that forehead!" He says Aaron Spelling invented this style of TV lighting.

Enough.
Leebs