Saturday, March 3, 2007

I Don't Like the Drugs; the Drugs, They Like Me

Take a body highly reactive to medication and add a slight head injury with a regular ibuprofen regimen and what do you get? Bizarre dreams, of course.

I dreamt I was going to the optometrist in town. I actually need to go to the eye doctor, so this is not really weird. The building I went to in my dream is actually a dentist's office. I actually need to go to the dentist, so this isn't too weird either, aside from the fact that I thought it was an optometrist.

When I went into the office, my cousin was working there as an assistant, except he had evil plans, I tell you. Evil. As a result, before he could approach my eyes with a vicious looking laser saw, I ran out of the building, and discovered I was in Los Angeles.

After trying to locate my friend Randy, and happily remembering that I'm led to believe SoCal is populated almost entirely by beautiful women, I decided I needed a job. Oh yeah, I knew I was in LA because I kept singing "I Love LA" by Randy Newman. I might actually have BEEN Randy Newman, too, because I sounded exactly like him, whereas in reality, I sound nothing like Randy Newman.

Anyway, I hopped into a subway car and started driving along the track until I reached a hospital. The supervisor there told me he needed someone to clean up a massive medicine spill. It seems that the Haldol and Geodon had spilled and were mixing together to form a hazardous material. Why did they have liquid concentrations of Haldol and Geodon? I don't know, but it was my job to clean them up. The only problem was that I'm hyper-affected by drugs, so the hazmat solution would have a worse effect on me than the people he already had. He wouldn't listen, though, so I had to get away by pointing and saying "Look at that!" and then sprinting back to my subway car before he caught me and threw me into the spill room. Fortunately, I made it just in time, and took off in my subway car very fast.

Regrettably, my subway car broke down at the foot of a gigantic, 30 story-tall hill. Since I didn't want to climb the hill, I got out of my subway car and went into the nearest building, which opened up into a boxing arena and I was coming down the aisle with a blue cape on me. I looked into the ring and my opponent was a patient from my unit, but not the one who hit me. However, after the bell rang, I spent the entirety of the match arguing with his manager and entourage about how much I owed them for dinner while the patient ran back and forth.

And then I woke up, and was very confused. And running late for work because my alarm didn't go off.


BerryBird said...

Are you as sensitive to the boozy drinks as the drugs? I sure hope you never need surgery. Anesthesia might be too much for you.

Woman Warrior said...

Hi Andy. I found you from Berry Bird's page. She reads mine on occasion and so now I drop in on hers and as a result here I am. Isn't the internet strange?

Just thought I'd say Hi. Now you have 6 readers.

Andy said...

BB, yes, the alcohol affects me similarly. It also seems to destroy the mental filters that turn my mean, cruel, and usually unwarranted thoughts into humorous and inoffensive sarcasm, and people seem to like me significantly less. As a result, I don't touch the stuff, and never have the urge to. I suppose I could've just said "I'm a really, really mean drunk."

WW, welcome! I should make it a rule that only people with alliterative pseudonyms can read my blog.

I also neglected to count my Friend Lindzy, who left a comment once, and the blogger formerly known as Corndog, who confessed to reading once on Casey's site.