I feel like I am arguing semantics

the most pointless and absurd way to argue. Forget you, Ikea, I say, unable to comprehend the complexity of putting a simple bed frame together that takes up three hours.

Oh well. My room is quite smashing, if I do say so myself. It is stop sign red with billions of flecks of gold glitter streaking down from the top of my walls.

I did it, and it’s not done. Much like my bed.

Arguing semantics and pointless arguments make me mad.

Because it is a waste of brain power and energy, purely by design.

My lovely apparently is having a stellar night. Congrats to him and MW for being the true rock stars that they are. I don’t really have any details about anything that has occurred down there, except to know that he is working, and they played a good show.

Anyways. Off to pass out on the bed so I can wake up at 5 am, the new morning time ritual. It’s the best, the 5 am wake-up, fueled by traffic and the crowning of the sun. The touching sky that the sun must do evey day. I really hate you sun sometimes, for making it a good idea to be wearing sun block before my eyes flutter awake.

Without my dream helmet, courtesy a la e, I am lost on good dreams. All nightmares, violent, filled with murder. Or the one where I woke up and T and friends were painting the living room white. Only problem was they had cut out dwarves and all kinds of psychadelic stuff that were going to be encircling the room and walls like giant insane puzzle pieces. Oh my, I said to myself, making sense of the super hippied out idea, and waking up so I could dream something different.

Then there was the one I have had more than once. Where my mother and father get this house that has a subhouse, or say, servant’s quarters area that my sister and I beg to make into our own mini-apartment. Inevitably it is haunted, and I curse the  ghosts for being bad mean bastards to ruin my parents house. Then my mother and I are going through the house. And she and I find this mini-room, which was a prop room at the bottom of the stairs. Apparently my mother figures it was a room where they tortured children. And then the really mean grandma ghost starts choking my mom and appears right in front of me, clear as flesh and bone, and bites my mother’s face like a deranged lunatic. Those dreams often end in either a new cavern being found under the earth filled with bodies or old sewage lines, or something like this secret room where a kid was tortured. I guess we don’t take the apartment, and instead decide to stay in our house, a part of the church, even though we were trying to escape because they always had so many services there.

These are the ones I made myself remember since they have become less and more violent depending on my mood going to bed. Tonight I am somber, very un-delicious, very not the singing about the piggies girl I have been for a week.

Tomorrow I wake up to something murderous, horrible. From a very young age I have had very violent dreams. Themed ones were my mother and sister leaving me at the grocery store. Or my mother’s bobby socks chasing me down the street. Or I would be shot, stabbed, eaten by sharks or chased and eaten by lions. I used to fall off cliffs and hit water and fall and fall and fall. These were dreams I had when I was five. Then I learned how to fly away. Part of me still thinks if I actually did meditate and practice I could do it.

Which reminds me, has anyone seen that chris angel freak? Is he for real? I want to think so, but his arrogance has a lacking appeal.

Alrighty bibies. Off to bed.

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