A lady friend of mine had a dream involving me and she's scared of what the implications are. She dreamed we were dating on the sly, trying to keep our torrid, passionate affair a secret from her young daughter. We were spending a warm, muggy day at a relatives lake house and all our attempts at sweaty, brain-busting intimacy were thwarted by her precocious offspring. Cut to later that night. My gorgeous friend and I are in bed(after what I can only assume was animalistic rutting)and she attempts to cuddle with me. I become angry with her, gritting my teeth, shouting, spittle flying and hitting her on her beautiful face and large, succulent breasts. Apparently I have a heretofore unmentioned anger management issue. Cut to the following day. My stunning friend and I take the fruit of her loins to a children's museum. The little tyke takes a shine to me and holds my hand most of the day. This worries her mother, who now knows of my issue with managing anger. Thus ends the dream. But the questions remain. What does it all mean? Should she, in actuality, be wary of me? Has she sensed something in me, something I myself am not even aware of? Will we overcome this dream debacle and commence to getting our respective freaks on? Can her large, succulent breasts be any more large and succulent? I ask you, good people, for help. Our future is at stake. Thank you.
Seriously, do you think everyone is aware of my large succulent breasts? I am not sure they get the point.
Ahem so here goes ...
I had a dream just last night that I came home from work, came home and saw my grandmother dead (her throat sliced open, green spittle dripping from her mouth) on the sofa. Just got new slip covers! Gasp!
Anyway, I was scared (who wouldn't be?) and for some reason went into the computer room. I realized the computer was on, and two green hands, smothered in blood, were floating over the keyboard playing World of Warcraft.
What the hell does this mean? Probably means nothing ... But if it does mean something ... What does it MEAN?
In reality, I am talking to this girl I have had a crush on for a very long time. Were not dating or anything, but we have become very close friends.
Well my dream is this, what I can remember of it. She was laying on a love seat with her five year old son laying next to her. I was laying on the floor. She got up, and made the sound like right before you hack a big loogie. And after she did this, I opened my mouth, and she spit it in my mouth. I don't know why I opened my mouth, and just before she did, I thought in my head this is going to be so gross. But when she did it, her spit didn't taste gross at all.
I know this is quite gross, but it's weighing on my mind. Why would I let a girl spit a loogie in my mouth, and why did it not have any flavor.
Man, dreams are weird but this one takes the cake for me right now.
should I keep this secret or should I tell her?
Example: Can u explain this dream?
I was throwing cats out of the window (4 cats).
I also saw 3 black balls of ants in my hse in the dream.
He clenched the stub of an unlit cigar between his crooked teeth
Ever-present brown spittle bubbled a little on his tongue and underneath
'Cause he was breathin' faster than usual, his heart pounding in delight
At what he had seen and what it would mean when day awoke the night
But there he was so there he stayed, his camera was loaded, too
The film was meant to follow the scent even by light of the moon
Catching the deed, grinning in glee, pictures worth more than words
Once displayed, he rightly guaged, the world would've overheard
In his mind, top bid he'd find, so high, it made him laugh a bit
He nearly choked and swallowed hard a big glob of brownish spit
He was spending all that cash, Vegas and a secret white yacht
But was startled out of reverie at the report of a single shot
A hand reached past the man for the camera and none saw the figure leave
Sound of footsteps diminished as the figure disappeared down the street
A cigar lay on the floor just as dead as it's owner's dreams
Though such is the fate, quite often, of theives and of other fiends
The man died a hero, his life and his work, tied up in a box quite neat
A thousand turned out to follow the hearse on its journey down the street
The widow in weeds wept at the deeds and the eloquent praises they gave
And had to be helped as she nearly collapsed at the site of the open grave
A month went by, tears by then dry, the widow packed up and left town
Justice would not banish a killer who vanished, and so she simply moved on
All understood as she knew they would and donated his badge to the jail
And she and her lover laugh everytime time they take their yacht for a sail.
The car’s window cranks slowly open.
“Traitors! You libs want the Islamics to strike again?!”
Her smile lines twist in hate. Blue, laughing eyes tear not in mirth, but in fury. Lips that scant hours ago had kissed a precious grandson adieu now glisten with foamy spittle.
The face of Mrs. Margaret T. Barker is a paradox.
Why does a lady of such poise, such kindness, pause to yell at roadside protestors? What drives her to denounce them as un-American? She would contend that hers is an ideology of common sense, a reaction to a dangerous world inhabited by idiots and terrorists.
Today, however, her politics have made her some ten minutes late. Ten minutes can be decisive when it comes to flying cross-country on standby. She sits alone by a concourse window, watching the planes taxi by, sipping a cheap Thursday morning latte, and wondering when she will at last be able to leave this place. Already, she misses her little Christopher.
Finally, her name is called along with one other. She grabs her luggage and, thanking God for her good fortune, steps through the threshold of the jetway. Behind her, Margaret sees a woman about her age, bowed over and walking with the assistance of a cane.
The woman is wearing a hijab.
Margaret cannot help it. Even as she waves hello and turns back towards the plane, her pace quickens. Her heart pounds in her cheast, and she finds the short tunnel warmer than it had been just seconds ago. Some part of her wants to turn around, to pass this strange foreigner and run back to her own safe, real America. But Margaret is a woman of extraordinary social grace. She grits her teeth, minds the gap, and proceeds to seat 30B without a word.
Some minutes later, her seat is leaned back as she waits for taxi and takeoff. She begins to nod her head, half-dreaming of bosses to please and presentations to give, when she feels a subtle tap on her shoulder. It is, of course, the Muslim woman.
“Excuse me,” she hums in a heavy Eastern European accent, “My seat is this.” Her gnarled hand gesticulates at the window seat next to Margaret.
“Oh, um, pardon me, erm,” mutters Margaret. What else is she to do? Even as she reels with thoughts of two heavenly towers felled, of soldiers struck down in the field and even at home, she is a proper hostess, if a reluctant one. Nonetheless, she dings the cane as she stows it for her new neighbor, telling herself that it was an accident.
Minutes pass. Stewardesses inflate iridescent orange life vests and demonstrate the proper way to exit what is apparently a Boeing 767. Margaret usually ignores these lectures, but today she feels a certain angst, a certain need to be more alert than usual. Every now and then, her eyes dart swiftly to her left and back again.
The engines start up, and Margaret percieves a slight clicking in their clamor. She focuses on it as the plane taxies, throttles up, and takes off. Anything but the woman in the hijab. Anything but the danger her plane could very well be in.
At last, some 10,000 feet later, the jet-age percussion stops. To Margaret, the eager communicator, this means she may as well be trapped in a soundproof room – alone. She needs to be spoken to. She needs to have a conversation. She needs something to link her with the world outside of her thoughts and fears.
And so she turns to the Muslim.
“So…where are you from?” inquires her cracking voice. There is a gauche pause.
“I am from, how you say? Armenia?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it. Isn’t it next to…erm…Iraq, right?”
The woman frowns from underneath her scarf, “No, no. East Europe. We, eh…border…? Border Turkey. Yes.”
Margaret reddens. She has no headscarf to conceal the blush, and so she turns her head in Western modesty. In American embarrassment.
Perhaps an hour goes by before Margaret attempts conversation again. She asks something trivial, tries to make small talk. The woman does not respond. Margaret wonders whether she was ignored or simply misheard. She excuses herself and walks deliberately towards the farthest of the Economy restrooms.
As she passes a stewardess, she briefly considers reporting the Muslim woman to her for something, anything. A necessity and a betrayal, she thinks. No doubt the post-9/11 zeitgeist would justify her. But what would she even say? She does not follow through.
By the time she again takes her seat, Margaret has returned to a more rational mindset, if only out of poise. How can she salvage this plane trip, she wonders? How can she acquaint herself with her plane-mate?
Like any grandmother, she soon has the answer. Margaret takes her seat and audaciously taps the Muslim.
“Do you have any grandchildren?” she begins.
A few painstaking moments pass as the requisite translation is made.
The woman opens her mouth. The last, best hope.
“Yes. Yes, I do. You like to see pictures, yes?”
By the time the plane is on final approach, the two