2001-11-19 - 10:06 p.m.
To sleep, perchance to ... shake my head in disbelief?

Good Lord ... *snickering convulsively* I just saw a commercial for next week's "The Weakest Link." Ordinarily I click it on just to tune out between "Buffy" reruns and "Angel" on Monday nights, and get an occasional laugh out of it. But next week .... BWA!! They're having eight Star Trek actors from all the different series on the show, and it looks as though someone finally gets the better of Anne. Heh ...

Oh, and if you're tuning in for more deep thoughts today, I must disappoint. I'm not getting into the controversial topic I was avoiding yesterday. I'm still avoiding it. And it's no big, really. It's just something bothering me. I guess I'm not done turning it over in my mind yet.

I got six hours of sleep last night for the first time in forever, if you don't count eight days ago Saturday, which I don't, because I was completely wiped out from all the driving. Exhausted sleep only counts for about half its length in actual refreshment value. Anyway, six hours plus of sleep with a semi-rested Shell equals the return of vivid, disturbing dreams, as always.

Actually, the first dream wasn't so bad, because it involved Wesley Wyndham-Price from the series "Angel," and ... Ah, we're not going there. *laughing* I must say, Alexis Denisof ("Wesley") is currently way up there with Hugh Jackman on my list of the Most Beautiful Men I've Ever Seen. Mmmmm.

The other dream I remember is the one that woke me up. I was stalking through a supermarket with a collection of friends (none of whom I actually recognize from the real world) and we were all in camo with machine guns. We would put a foot on a bottom shelf, pop our heads up over the top of the aisle barriers, and fire towards the registers at some vague, undefined army of enemies. At some point I began fading backwards through the store, looking for someone in particular, and the ranks of shelves morphed into a twisted forest, with thin grey trees and scattered leaves and the steep, twisted banks of a stream. Overhead, a lamppost cast a dim light in the thick evening air, and I had the uneasy sensation that I was being hunted.

What do my dreams say about me? It's as if my subconscious belongs to someone else, from another dimension. I don't think I've had a normal dream since I hit puberty. They're all uneasy and disorienting and epic in scale, and I'm never who I should be in them, yet I'm exactly the same as ever, inside. I'm lucky if even one of the familiar faces from my dream is a person I know in reality, and luckier yet if death isn't involved in some prominent manner, sometimes even mine. Disturbing much? I'd say so.

Oh well. I wouldn't be me without them, I suppose.

In cheerier news, I spent forty-five minutes on the phone today with some poor guy in a Voicestream call center in the Rocky Mountain area. Oh, wait, that's not so cheery, is it? Especially since I was calling to bitch about the extra $14.99 plus tax that was showing up on my monthly bill. But he was very nice and helpful, and flirtatiously discussed the weather to break up all the minutes he'd put me on hold, and by the end my day was strangely looking up. So from me to Random Call Center Guy, here's an air-kiss, and a heartfelt Thanks. You made bill-day slightly better than abysmal. *smile*