Ilse Metalomets

Sorry for spamming dashboards tonight. I’m still behind on documenting, but I’ll stop for tonight out of courtesy to y’all because I’m a lovely lass like that.

But of course, if you find any of these posts annoying, remember that you can get Tumblr Savior to block them, as they’ll all have the tag “dream diary”.

Fun times, I’m staying with my nice, elderly aunt (maybe great aunt?), in her house by the beach. Except I don’t have any aunts that are truly “elderly,” and certainly none of them have beach homes. Also, of course, waking logic allows me to realize that this aunt, at least in her appearance, was an amalgamation of various elderly women in my life, most of whom I am not related to. But I digress, because well, dream-logic.

This aunt happened to be out for a while, and I started exploring her kitchen (which, hey, was pretty similar to my own, but still, dream-logic is the prevailant one here). Then I found a bag of cocaine (which was still totally cocaine, despite that it looked like regular white sugar, I assure you). And then I fucking ate the cocaine. Yep, I just kinda went ahead and ingested three spoonfuls of cocaine (despite evidence that that is indeed not the correct way to do cocaine) because hey, it’s in my dream-aunt’s house, and once again, why the fuck not. Please hold any Dr. Rockso jokes until the end of the post, thank you.

The room spun like hell, as if I were on a rotor ride at the carnival. Again, this is one of those sensations that is somewhat difficult to describe as it took place in the context of the dream, but imagine a cartoon in which some character’s head spins and whirs around like a drill bit. It was very much like that, and felt much as one might imagine such an action to feel (without the resulting horrible pain and neck-snapping, though, I presume).

This went on for what felt like 3 - 5 minutes, and then appeared to stop. After that, I just remained very jittery, especially as I attempted to cover up the fact that I goddamn ate cocaine. I should note here, of course, that I realize that these aren’t real symptoms of taking cocaine, especially if one were to ingest it.

I then spent the rest of the dream doing things to cover up the fact that I was high on cocaine, including making my bed. And when I say I made my bed, I don’t mean I made it look tidy, I mean that I actually constructed a bed, and it ended up looking like a large-breed dog bed, anyway (heh, which truthfully is perfectly fine when you’re as tiny as me).  Again though, by waking logic, I feel like doing this might have actually alerted dream-aunt that I was on drugs, but hey, dream-aunt was actually impressed.

The dream pretty much ended by us watching a movie together in the evening (yeah, I sat in my homemade dog bed, which was actually really comfortable), then I fell asleep, which seemed to make the cocaine effects go away.

So I guess cocaine was only sort of a hell of a drug?

What a rush, it’s my first day of the semester! Gotta get to class!

But it sort of wasn’t my class. Instead of looking like any of the other academic buildings on my school’s campus, it looked like one of the buildings from the local community college. This was not only odd because it’s not the correct school, but because I’d only been there maybe twice in my academic lifetime. Oh, and because the place had a vague feeling of a trapeze artist’s set-up; there was some geometric sculpture/mobile hanging from the VERY high-vaulted ceiling by wires, and the stairwells all had this dark, towering, over-arching, and spindly look to them (not sure how far up they went, since the ceiling of the main floor was very high, and there were many floors to the building).

Nevertheless, I took to finding my classes, but realized I had no idea where the fuck I was going (a classic dream-plot trope, I suppose). I tried asking around, but no one seemed interested in helping. My sister was even there, on a precarious, towering stairwell nonetheless, and just kind of lol’d when I tried to ask her for help. I guess in this dream scenario, the administrative folks either weren’t about, or I didn’t feel like asking them.

I think I at least managed to make it to one class, and then I went home for the day. After a couple hours at home, I started getting that raw feeling in my throat that absolutely meant that had a head cold coming on. Still, I decided that I would go to school again tomorrow.

WHAT A BLAST THAT DECISION TURNED OUT TO BE. I felt absolutely awful - my nose was more clogged that a public shower drain, my eyes watered, and my throat felt like someone had taken a cheese-grater to it, but the grater hadn’t actually taken off the gratings, so the mucus-covered throat shreds just kind of flailed about. I was also stuck with keeping some kind of retainer in my mouth (medicinal, I guess?), and this retainer was also black and glittery, and shaped like a high-heeled shoe, because why the fuck not, it’s dream world.

I actually started crying because of how awful I felt (no, I don’t *actually* cry over colds, this just felt really excruciating), but I can’t recall if that helped my symptoms or not (logic tells me no, but I think it actually did here in dream-land). To be honest though, I’m glad this sensation was part of the dream. It’s FASCINATING how it felt even more real and awful than a real cold, yet was still only a creation of brainwaves and neural firing in a state of deep sleep! It’s difficult for me to describe the painful sensations of congestion that  I totally and fully felt while in this sleep state, but the fact that it was so much worse than the reality is something that can only be mentally perceived to be believed.

Anyway, onward I trudged to my next day of classes. I was headed towards some literature class. Now, though of course the classroom that I ended up in was far, far too fantastical to be real, it ironically looked much more like the classrooms in one of our academic buildings than the building from day one of the dream did, because on of the academic buildings is actually a big, tall beautiful cathedral, right next to a marvelous church (I shit you not, I can let you in on the name of it, if you like).

Regardless, this classroom was like a scene from one of the LOTR/Hobbit films. It looked to almost be housed inside the knot-hole of a gigantic tree, as the walls had the twisted appearance of tree roots/branches, and the ceiling was a dark canopy of branches and leaves. There were red, gold, and white candles lit everywhere for light, and there looked to be some kind of altar-like structure in the front-left corner. As wretchedly sick as I felt, this classroom absolutely made me smile, from within and without. That is, until I realized the doom.

A friend of mine was in the front row of desks talking to some shirtless red-haired boy, but didn’t say a word to me. Then, the professor started talking, and as my friend got up with a couple other students and stood near the professor, it hit me - he was an undergrad TA. My reaction could essentially be summed up as, Oh hell no. Because I am NOT going to be subservient to him. I am not going to answer to him as though he were above me in any shape or form, not just because he’s my friend, or because he’s in undergrad (though that was part of it), but because I’ll be damned if he has done anything more than I have academically, and this was a fucking literature class, and he’s a fellow psych major! So, fuck that, I left, despite being in the world’s most beautiful classroom.

The last thing I remember is going home again, then crying and feeling even worse in my symptoms, and finally spitting out that platform-heel retainer. For the best, I suppose. 

(Yeah, I’m a little back-logged with these, I only just got the idea to document them a couple days ago.)

I was using some Skype-like software program on my laptop to attempt to summon Death (and I think maybe Lucifer as well). So, I’m typing, scanning my fingerprint, the whole ordeal. While using the program, I didn’t think I was having any luck, but I was still having a lot of fun.

I guess I eventually got tired of unsuccessful summons, so I got off my computer and walked around my basement. AND THEN THERE WAS DEATH, gazing at me from under a dark hood, with his (her?) tattered gray robe flailing about like a rolling graveyard fog - or so I thought. I went to touch Death’s hood, and a mask came off to reveal that it was one of my friends in a costume (a damned good costume, though, I tell ‘ya what).

Then I went out into the street, and there Death was again! Perhaps on the hunt for the next to die? Regardless, I was suspicious after my last “encounter” so I reached for the hood/face. Once again, it was another one of my friends in a costume.

So I went back home, hoping to be rid of my mischievous friends so as to be able to get back to non-summoning-related computer activities. I entered through my basement, but noticed two people talking in the back room of my basement. One of them I could tell was the first friend in the Death costume, but the other had their head turned. They were wearing the same tattered grey robe, so I thought it was yet another friend of mine, but one thing was different. The hood was off, and it was a sort of sunken-looking, bald, pale and wrinkled head of an old man.

Could THIS be the real Death, then? Showing his aged, hollowed, decayed face for real, and just kind of chatting up my friend like it was no big deal? I crept towards the robed figure, wondering if I’d met the envoy of the Great Beyond…

And it turns out that I hadn’t. The aged head turned around, and it turned out to be my (paternal) grandfather. We all laughed, and I was happy to see my granddad liking one of my friends.


Here’s the thing, though - my grandfather has been deceased since 2006.

Most original blog idea ever, amirite? Originality (or lack thereof) aside, I want to document my dreams as progress with my SSRI. I want to document how viciously sensational and realistic they get (or get to appear, according to my perception), and I want to document any changes in the “moods” of my dreams. I mention the SSRI because taking this type of medication seems to intensify my dreams, and the fact of it interests me immensely.

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nuggles:

when you find a shirt you really like and wear it a couple times and it starts doing

the thing

“The thing” is called pilling.

psychologyandthings:

1. What’s the difference between a psychologist and a magician?

A magician pulls rabbits out of hats, whereas a psychologist pulls habits out of rats.

Read More

igotyousomethingcasey:

snaxattacks:

shnubs:

snaxattacks:

Another reason to not mess with the Wii Fit trainer:

SHE’S GOT FUCKING ADD ONS

Batter stop you have a wife