Strange dreams last night (as is usually the case). One was about Thanksgiving. I was trying to make the perfect dinner, including a shrimp and grits appetizer. I called Jason to ask how he prepared his Thanksgiving grits; he said he added Stove Top stuffing.
I’m guessing this was at least partially inspired by the infomercial I saw yesterday, wherein they cooked a juicy turkey in a thing that looks like an old fashioned hair dryer. You know the kind–old ladies sitting around reading magazines with these things covering their recently permed hair.
And I made chicken and currant dressing for dinner last night. I suppose that had something to do with the dream, too.
But none of that accounts for the next dream I had. My friend Rowan was being stalked by a goth girl. She really wanted to go out with him and he was struggling to find a way to break it off with her, not just because Rowan is gay, but because he didn’t like her. Then I went to the Heartbreak Hotel, which, sadly, had been shut down. I broke in and rummaged through piles of old towels, empty shampoo bottles and dead plants. In a back room, I found goth girl hunkered down in a corner. She was writing feverously.
Now what do you think that means?
And yes, I realize how pointless this post is. Mostly I just wanted to write about Thanksgiving grits. Say it outloud. It just rolls off the tongue.
In other news, it’s supposed to get up to 85 today. Crap.