poukledden

(*old Doctor Who, of course. Wonderfully bad because they had no money special effects.)

Last night's allergy-headachy-heaty fever dreams:

A Boy Gregory, mad because They (the usual They, parents, teachers, evil adults all) forced him out of PE classes and sports and made him take part in a Cool Extracurricular Science Activity, one in which we'd be able to participate in Daring Research on Dinosaurs that would uncover new truths, all because as a Nerd Gregory was supposed to like this Sort of Thing, and all he really wanted to do was play soccer, but always tripped over the ball because this is what Nerds Do. And then I was in the lab, grumbling and angry, looking in a microscope and seeing little tiny dinosaurs moving around, only they weren't dinosaurs, they were these weird flying Doctor Who monster tentacle things, and I fell down the microsope like it was a rabbit hole and ended up on a space station. A band of people, desperately trying to stay alive. An impassioned plea by one man for another, accused of being the coconspirator of the alien menace. Have, mercy, he begged, have mercy on my friend, he's a good man, it's not his fault. And then the man put out the airlock, and the creatures attacking, flopping off off walls and ceilings in unconvincing special effects ways. The creatures eat everything that is important to being human, leaving behind void-filled shells that can only consume.

I awoke thirsty, headachy, bleary eyed, dizzy, like I had a hangover. Which just isn't fair, a hangover without having had a good, proper drunk before it. I mean, when was the last time I even had alcohol? Not fair, not fair. Allergies suck.

The sudden onslaught of Tucson summer heat is the anvil, the allergies the hammer, my head the sword. This is why insomnia is so often my summer companion, and it's so easy to enter a weird sleep-deprived state where everything is tinged surreal. At work today I kept expecting to see the flying creatures, could almost hear their whispers. The steady entrance of some of our regulars was like a series of anchors to reality, keeping me from floating off into a bizarro land of De Chirico meets Giger meets Dali meets The Yellow Submarine.

Weather.com says 111F tomorrow, or rather today, since it's 1 A.M. already. Tucson is a fevered dream, a shimmering mirage, a heat rash. Yeah, I have a rash going on, too, part of my summer allergy fun, made worse by the heat. Pat me on the head, let me cry on your shoulder. Or at least sigh and dream of coolness. Don't be surprised if I flinch when you touch me, because my skin feels like a creepy crawly iggy wiggy expanse of hypersensitivity. And right when I seem to be craving touch like a drug.

...much to the jealous anger of the other waiters in the place that was like a Bentley's/Lovin' Spoonfuls mashup  (the guys particularly jealous, in an ugly way, leering at her and talking loudly about wanting her to finally take it all off in a movie). She had minestrone soup, and barely acknowledged me as she talked earnestly with her Tucson friend. And then a phalanx of paparazzi descended upon the table, and she was whisked away by attendents.

When I woke up, it was with a bit of a shudder. The men were vile and creepy, making me feel unclean by association.

Sinister women with magical powers! Time travel! Sexual tension! My brother-in-law working the counter of a 1940s late night diner! More sinister, magic-wielding women!

My brain: it is an odd place. And 7 hours of sleep, as a result, have left me feeling worn-out. But deeply, deeply amused.