(WordPress is being weird by spacing my paragraphs too far apart from each other and I don’t feel like fixing it tonight. However, the rest of the unexplained idiocies are purely my doing.)
I’ve been really sick for the past few days. I mean seriously sick with a massive life shattering head cold. I already went through two boxes of tissue’s and my NyQuil is running low.
It all started on Christmas when I went to my brother’s house for dinner. Fran, my bro, made this really awesome sangria that he loaded with fruit and bourbon and whatever else, and it tasted like fruit punch. He served it to me in a mason jar. I was on my third jar when my throat started closing up making it hard to swallow the purple deliciousness. I was happy, tipsy and peppy one minute, and the next I wanted to pass out on his couch. Exhaustion hit me hard.
Alexis (my 13-year-old niece) – “Let’s play Dead Island! Will you play it with me?”
I look at the package and see that it’s rated M for mature – “Um, well, it’s rated M and it says it has blood, gore, drug reference, intense violence, sexual themes, strong language and use of alcohol. Sure, I don’t see why not.”
I sarcastically looked at my mother who bought her the game for Christmas.
My mom – “Alexis is a very mature 14-year-old. She’s old for 14.”
Alexis – “But I’m 13.”
I put the game in the Xbox and listened to the Dead Island theme song which was a vulgar, swear littered rap. Every other word was fuck. But do we shut off the game and watch It’s a Wonderful Life like I suggested? No, no we do not. Instead I got stuck playing this gruesome game on a big-ass plasma tv. I literally squealed when I got eaten by my first zombie, and Alexis was jumping up and down screaming at me to run the other way.
Me – “Why don’t you play? I don’t want to play this game, it’s too scary.”
Alexis – “No I can’t, I’m doing my nails.”
She quickly grabbed her little nail kit she got for Christmas.
The game was scaring the hell out of me.
Mom – “Aww look at little Mellie, she’s so scared. She’s still such a little girl. Isn’t she Fran? Isn’t she still such a little innocent girl?”
She say’s this like she’s poking fun of me, but doesn’t realize she’s poking fun which is the worst kind of poking fun because it’s the sincere kind!
In the meantime, Fran and Melissa were serving us our five course dinner. I got served a cup of seafood stew for the second course. It was chock full of mussels, scallops and thick, long octopus tentacles that could reach far beyond my tonsils. I actually like octopus tentacles (I’m weird like that), but it was a bit hard to get down with my newly forming sore throat and all.
After dinner, Fran let out his three big dog’s from their room so they could frolic and romp on top of me.
Me – “This is like the Bumpus’s hound dogs from A Christmas Story.”
They climbed all over me and tried pushing me off the couch.
Overall it was a good Christmas and I wouldnt’ve had it any other way. I was, however, sick as a hound when I got home.
My mom bought me a four-inch memory foam mattress topper for Christmas (five inches too big all the way around), so I been nesting on that for the past four days.
I’ve been playing video games, watching Netflix, surfing the web and whenever my NyQuil would kick in, I nap. It sounds like a good time, but it’s not. I feel so crappy. I’ve been telling all my friends that I might not make it to the new year.
I pulled myself out of bed to give ten hours of massage yesterday and today. It was treacherous and tiresome, but I hate calling out of work. And while I was massaging, I was lost in thought on some outstanding, wonderous blogging idea’s. I concocted some thought-provoking, nail-biting blogging reflections but all I can muster out of me tonight is this garbage. Blah, I have a brain bug. The cold virus got to my brains!
I should take my NyQuil and get some ZZZ’s. I get horrible insomnia when I blog before bed.
I’ll just write real quick about the dream I had before waking up today. I was nearing my 12th hour of NyQuil induced slumber, delirious with medicated exhaustion. I could feel myself sweating, tossing and turning.
I have two neighbors that live down the street from me on my dead-end road. My closest neighbors house is very old and dilapidated and the town had to kick out the occupants so they can condemn it unlivable (this is real life, not the dream). The second house I never seen before, but I know it to be also condemned. It belonged to the grandparents of my closest neighbors so it’s even more broken down and decayed than the first. It’s a good setting for a spooky story.
My dream was about the second house – my neighbors abandoned grandparents house. I dreamt my dad wanted to buy the property for me and fix up the house so I can live there. I thought it sounded like a great idea, so we walked down the dusty unpaved road and arrived at a pristine, shiny looking house. I felt like I hit the jackpot.
We went inside and the place was nice enough, but the closer I looked at the walls, the more damaged and old everything became. There was an old woman who lived there. She was showing us the house, but wouldn’t let us see the upstairs. Instead she taken me and my dad into rooms on the first floor that were getting smaller and smaller until we ended up in a very cramped, tiny bedroom.
Me – “Umm, I don’t know about this……”
Old lady – “I purchased this house for $38,000 many, many years ago. I’m only asking for the price I originally paid.”
Me – “Oh wow! Okay, that sound good to me”
Her and my father started discussing the details and headed back outside. I thought that I could snatch up the house for 38 grand and flip it and make a small fortune. But first I needed to inspect the rest of the house. So, I bravely snuck upstairs.
I walked up to the second floor landing and seen that it had a few extra bedrooms.
Me – “Oh good, if I decide to stay here I can have friends over so I’m not alone here.” I felt more hopeful and the house less creepy.
Each bedroom had at least three small beds. Upon closer examination of the beds, I realized that some of them were toy beds – meant for a doll to sleep in (this is the second time this month I dreamt about these small beds. The first time I saw them I was on the top floor of a mansion and somehow I ended up in a river getting attacked by a duck). I walked out of the bedroom and came face to face with the old woman who was showing me the house.
Me – “Oh, I’m sorry I just wanted to see the rest of the house.”
Old lady – “It’s okay dear, you can see the rest of it. There’s lot’s to see. You should see what’s down that hallway.”
She pointed to a dark gloomy hallway that lead into a big room. This is where the dream gets a little fuzzy, unfortunately. When I woke up today I could’ve recited the dream from beginning to end, but I waited too long to write about it.
Anyway, back to my dream.
I suddenly wasn’t alone to inspect the house anymore. Both my parents were there, my friends, and a house appraiser, house inspector, a realtor – but I managed to get separated from the crowd.
This is when I started seeing ghosts. Not happy, Casper-friendly ghosts, but ghosts from an insane asylum that got closed down for being accused of heinous crimes such as beating the patients and/or testing drugs on them. It was like being at the Overlook Hotel from The Shining. The ghosts seemed like real people, only crazy.
I stumbled into one gigantic room that was the asylums’ cafeteria. I saw insipid people sitting at long table’s – some being spoon fed by Nurse Ratchet look-alikes. Most of them had a dull, lifeless (no pun) expression.
I know so far this dream sounds horrifying, but I wasn’t really scared. Playing Dead Island scared me more than this dream did. I can’t explain why that is.
I regrouped with everyone who was oblivious to the houses’ dark past and secret monsters. My mom was wearing a Nurse Ratchet hat that I pointed out to her.
Me – “This place is haunted! Why won’t anyone believe me! Look, you’re wearing one of the nurse’s hats!”
Mom – “No I’m not.”
She took the hat off and it wasn’t a nurse hat anymore. She showed me a regular hat.
I wish I can remember the dream in its entirety, but I can’t. I may have been a little scared during it, but felt like I could conquer the ghost’s that were living there, and I somehow knew they couldn’t physically harm me.
When I got up this morning, I went upstairs to make breakfast and to tell my parents about my dream.
Dad – “You know that’s funny because there was a guy there today (at the spooky house) taking pictures of it.”
Me – “Why was he taking picture’s of it?”
Dad – “I think it has something to do with the mortgage.”
I don’t know how my dad spotted this alleged man taking pictures of that creepy house. It’s so far into the woods! I stopped asking him questions because I never get an interesting answer. My imagination like’s it when I don’t ask questions.
I seriously can’t watch scary movies or play scary video games without having a nightmare come of it. I’m done with them! Done with them I tell you!
I have to sleep, it’s way past my bedtime.
I’ll leave you with a Holly text joke to lighten your spirits:
Holly: Did you know diaherria is hereditary?
Holly: *diarrhea (i spelled it wrong)
Me (completely ignoring her text and referring to how sick I felt): I think I’m dying still. You were a good friend I just want you to know.
Holly: Lol you’ll be okay. thanks! you werw a good friend too
Me: I like to hear facts about diarrhea. Tell me more!
Holly: Diarrhea runs in your jeans! hahahaha (get the joke?)
Me (messing with her): Oh it’s a joke?
An hour and a half goes by……
Me: I get the joke ha ha
Holly: Lol. yes it is a joke! Q: do you know diarrhea is hereditary? A: it runs in the jeans! hshaha
Me: My jeans are tight.
I didn’t think I would type the whole texting convo, but it sounded funny, so why not. My brain is not working today, seriously.
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