Up from a bad one

It’s a drag, but I never ever never get to run around on my wife in my dreams.  It’s always just that I HAVE run around (the dreams start there), and now I have to deal with the woeful panic till Devon wakes me up, thank god. 

Still, those dreams beat the pants off the reoccurring “drowning in a sea of meat” variety — like those HD surfing vids where you see the sea from beneath, the waves from below, but it’s all blood and hunks of flesh. It burns my eyes.

But I’d giddyup onto either of those before I checked myself into my most common reoccurring dream — the house:

I know it well enough to recognize the rooms, but not well enough to not get lost, not well enough to not continually stumble into the Bad Room.  The Bad Room has easels flayed atop one another, and there’s a shadowy demon that will kill, and the only way out is the AC vent.  I’m always looking for the theatre — which I’ve only seen a few times — with plush red seats down one side, and — mirroring the angle — a rising slope of garden on the other.