I wanna come too.
ha winky faces mean trouble ;) ;) ;) ;)
That was more towards my followers, who know me personally. uhh. I don’t know, figure it out. I like nice things that distract me.
(a different kind) I’m very nervous about doing our first filming shoot. D: Hence my incessant posting today. I hate to get nervous because when I’m nervous I am a mess.
and by mess I mean I spill things. I break things. I trip over things. I freak out
over things I would normally not freak out about. I hyperventilate. A mess.
I think I am most nervous because a) the armory freaks me out b) not all of my “team” is going to be there with me.
Anyway. When I am nervous and stressed out I bake things. Lots and lots of things. My house will be full of cookies and brownies and cupcakes and whathaveyou for awhile so if you want some come through or I can send you some because I really like the post office this time of year (I’m not kidding) also if you want to calm my nerves, please do so. :)
Where I’m sitting on a green park bench, the wooden kind not metal, in a park I’ve never been to in real life. Writing like I always do - about what’s around me, in this case: kids playing in sand with bright plastic buckets, an obscenely cute couple sharing a picnic on an old knit blanket, a housewife and a light pink stroller.
While I go through my usual journaling routine, making up stories about those people around me and why they are at the same place at the same time as me, an old man maybe 65-70 years old sits on the opposite side of the bench.
I hate when people sit next to me all the time, on the bus in a movie theater anywhere, I hate when people sit next to me.
I inch closer towards the end of the bench while I finish writing about the couple and how they’re about to break up because he’s really cheating on her. The old man, who is also wearing green, but about 4 shades lighter than the bench slides over next to me. I finish my sentence and put the date at the end of my page and put my notebook in my purse. Then out of NOWHERE the old man grabs my purse.
Real me (not dream me witnessing this) just assumes oh I’m having a “paranoid-getting-my-shit-stolen” dream. NOPE.
Dream me, focuses in on the old man’s liver spots. He has liver spots all over his face and his pale wrinkly hands, however he is a strong old man not a frail old man, one that has a life of hard manual labor behind him. And he turns around, gripping my arm, and out of nowhere pulls out a chainsaw and saws off (in slow motion) my hands. Blood splattering onto the housewife’s light pink stroller [pink and red go so well together] and he picks up my hands, takes my notebook out of my purse, and leaves. And then I wake up, but I assume I could never write again because my hands got fucking sawed off.
I’ve had this dream about 6 times in the last week. It really fucks me up.