Last night I dreamed about Marilyn Manson again. Or should I say, Brian Hugh Warner, ‘cause he was chilling on the front porch of the motel room he was at. I came up and stared at him all close-up ‘cause IDGAF, and he was all “Yes I am,” and I was all “Do you remember man!unit!?” but then his girlfriend came up and was like “Who the fuck are you?” and I left. But I came back later. The motel or lodge or whatever the fuck it was (in the mountains) had a dining area and he was there with his peeps. He offered me a seat and some hash. Heaven. Then I woke up.

Indeed. Most of us who have premenstrual issues are so used to the chemicals fucking up out sleep —that we can sleep through it. Heightened brain-activity during sleep due to hormonal insanity means weirder dreams and an increased likelihood of remembering them.

Last night I dreamed I was going to a Marilyn Manson concert downtown with an acquaintance from high school. I got lost on foot for a little while without her. Found the venue. It was small, and Nocturnal was apparently helping warm up the crowd. (Which makes me wonder if I wandered into some sort of special dreamspace. I know he’s into and very good at lucid dreaming, and I haven’t seen him in more than a year or thought of him in months.) The ..wtf is it called, starting act? was almost done with their set when my friend (my ride) said she had to go. When I got home I plotted going to the next show and borrowing dad’s car to do it. Lame dream is at least better than the nightmares I’ve been having. Two nights ago I dreamed that I was responsible for Thing Two getting molested. I wonder if it’s normal for chicks to dream more when they’re about to start ragging.

Dreamed man!unit’s boss came over to the house to discuss some sort of thing visible by internet video. Mad dash to make him food (which involved ham, mashed potatoes, and cheese… I don’t think I actually have all three of these but this is how my brain interprets Too Poor to Host), he said no thanks he’s already had ham today. He looked wrong in my dream. According to Man!Unit, much too fat and -I- know in my dream he had fucked-up hands, which tells me it was an amalgamation of how I see boss guy in my head and The Penguin, ‘cause I watched Batman Returns last night. His energy was amazing. Kind of like psy-crack. He drove a broke-ass red Jeep that used to be green. (Maybe my brain’s interpretation of “He lived out of the back of a station wagon while he was apprenticing.”) He left for a bit. I showered and all of the dye came out of my hair —didn’t go from black to auburn, mind you, but from black to orangey bleached blonde. Couldn’t get him out of my brain, couldn’t stop psychically poking. He came back, they watched their shit, he left. That’s when I shook his Penguin-like hands. The End.

Last night I dreamed that I met David Bowie (in his house, no less!), and despite the fact that he had someplace to be, he couldn’t help but put it off to spend time talking to me. We just connected like that. 

It’s a good sign to me that the Vampyric Recognition Exercise worked yesterday. Supposed to do the meditation, then record dreams and figure out whether my sub-conscious is playing games or my HGA/Inner-Fang’d-Bitch-Beast is trying to talk to me. Considering the thrall, I’m going with IFBB.

Also, Saturday night I dreamed that I found a way to prevent BFF’s death. (It involved keeping him away from someone new he met upstate, but I think it was really about being there at the time to bully him into going to the emergency room.)

I dreamed thing 2 died. No description. Just dead. And the aftermath. That was awful. Then I dreamed something else, for a short while. Then I dreamed this dream where we were sharing a hotel room with the person I hate most in the world. I got to tell her I don’t like her. Also, she kept hitting on my man, touching him a lot, even he told her to stop being icky and weird. 

(via galileogst)