Last night I dreamed that at work they were requiring us to paint giant murals reflecting something about my company, and somehow everyone on the floor became an amazing artist, except of course me (insert some seriousness overachieverness issues with work here). So I decided to freak them out by doing something "edgy", which turned out to be a mural which depicted every war criminal I could think of, the idea being "at least THEY don't work here".
Of course, I wasn't really me, because I'm always a third party in my dreams, so in this one I was someone resembling Ashley Judd who was dating some physician (or shoe salesman, I'm not sure, there seemed to be a lot of focus on shoes), and I kept giving him my Ativan pills because I had done an amateur diagnosis of anxiety. But when I met with my psychiatrist and confessed that my boyfriend only seemed to be getting worse, he told me it was my fault, that the Ativan was what was driving him crazy all along.
I woke up with the refrain in my head being "Ativan Ativan Ativan". Click my heels together three times and say it three times fast to keep the crazies away. Maybe she wasn't Ashley Judd, maybe she was grown up Judy Garland.
No I'm not on Ativan, and until I had this dream I had no idea what it was for, but I must have soaked it up somewhere. Stupid awful drug commercials.
Lastly I know I'm an awful terrible big geek, because I heard the word "Alliance" in an NPR story last night, and my hackles went sky high.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment
Who wants to fuck the Editors?