Epic dream last night:
Demonic creatures of mercurial morphology fond of cutting themselves with glass had infiltrated The City. My objective was to track them down and eliminate them, armed only with some type of derringer (which might not even have been loaded), explosive sunglasses (evidently multi-use), and stilletto (literally, stilletto) heels. My only allies were a grappling gun and some big Amazon of a Dredd-style traffic Judge who took a while to realize that The Law had bigger problems than my weaving a stolen hoverbike between lanes.
Think Ada Wong vs. The Ghosts of Mars in Silent Hill, peppered with bits of Judge Dredd and Les Miserables.
The weird part is that these sado-masochistic demons communicated in what I took to be Russian. But I suppose that’s what comes of reading Tom Clancy before bed.
[My Kid] was home sick today.
TEXT FROM MY MOM: “How is •••• feeling? Is he still running a fever? Did you remember to call the school?”
MY REPLY: “I dumped him off at the ER hours ago and hightailed it the fuck outta there. His complexion was pastier than mine, and he was spewing profanity in about six different languages… along with what looked to be pea soup. I then called the school and — after explaining that we were both converting to Roman Catholicism — arranged for his school records (including the IEP) to be transferred over to St. Timothy’s, which he will be attending once Father Karras says he’s in the clear.”
HER REPLY: “That is nice. Don’t forget to send in a note. Or maybe I should just email his teacher for you.”
In another time and place, developmental dyspraxia could have easily been mistaken for a symptom of demonic possession, rather than a lifelong neurological inconvenience.
So when I see the word “Wenches” appear as an item on our grocery list, I can reasonably assume that what I had in mind at the time was the purchase of more WetOnes, (our preferred brand of disinfectant wipe), rather taking my kid out on the town in search of prostitutes.