I was married to Paul Newman. Not the young, cute, "Hustler" Paul Newman. The older, puffy, but still-handsome-in-an-old-man-sort-of-way, Paul Newman. Darn this dream.
Anyway, Puffy Paul killed me. I suffered a long, drawn out death by Puffy's hand. He took me outside to walk in the snow and struck me with something (a shovel?) Then he began to dismember me. When he was done, he took the shovel and methodically covered up the blood in the snow.
Somehow my body-less head and shoulders wiggled their way back home. (I told you this was crazy -- and here I though my recent dream of a talking moose was nuts.) When I entered our home, I found hubby Paul about to end his own life, sitting in a chair with a hypodermic needle an inch from his arm. I watched with revenge and satisfaction. Just then, our son walked in and saw what was about to happen. My head-on-a-stump shouted, "Stop! Think about your son!" (Selfless, I know, even in my dreams.)
Paul stopped, walked over to his son and walked out of the room with him, arm in arm.
End of dream.
4 comments:
I'm very afraid to fall asleep tonight. That is just plain weird.
It's the Swede's fault. (surely)
Why can't women just dream about sex all the time like men do?
That is such a cool dream!
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