A Disappointed Dreamer Has a Weird Convo and Goes to Therapy

A conversation Husband and I shared last night (I have no idea where it came from or who spurred it):

Don't worry, Breezy, a lion would never eat Hairy (the fluffy monstrosity).

Yes it would! Why wouldn't it eat a cat – albeit a beautiful and perfect one?

Well, would I eat a midget?

?

It's the same thing!

I love my hubby. Where does he think up shiz like this?

And moving on...

My Archuleta Baby lost. I couldn't believe it. I was stunned, heartbroken. I murmured to myself (and in some weird way, I'm sure he heard) that I would more than make it up to him with a makeout sesh.
Really, I'd like to help in any way I can.
My sister called me crying. CRYING. And, she's like, seven years older than me. Laurie and I had a Pizza/American Idol/Baby Men Children party last night, and we were both utterly speechless. I'm trying to repress this memory. It just hurts too much.

I had a dream last night. Oh -- don't worry. If you're concerned I'm going to launch into a seven paragraph diatribe outlining every boring detail of my dream, do not fear; I'd never do that to you, dear readers! I've always found it fascinating (and unfortunate) that people can regale you with tales of their dreams that are utterly worthless and boring unless you were the dreamer itself. I've had to endure through many yawn sessions while I pretended to ooh and aah over a friend or family member re-living dreams like a shark swimming through pavement trying to attack innocent passerby, clown midgets riding unicycles, (which really though, is pretty damn cool) and a deer wearing an orange construction helmet directing traffic. These would be fascinating if I were tripping on coke and/or acid at the time, but if not...LAAAAAME.
Wow. That was a big digression there (and arguably more boring than if I had told you a dream in detail, anyway).

So my point: I'm only going to say about my dream last night that it was very High School Musical-esque, and my twin brother and I were the stars. Only I couldn't sing, and everyone was making fun of me. Brett was also wearing a giant jacket that said Don Juan Boozer on the back, and I couldn't figure out why. And then I decked my English teacher. Or something. And during my dream, I said to myself, Wow. I really need to blog about this day, it's incredible! No one will be able to believe it! You know you're much too addicted to blogging when you even dream that you need to write in your crazy blog about shiz most others don't care about. (Although, to be fair, if I really did deck my English teacher - or anyone, for that matter -- it would be utterly blog-worthy, and I'd do it in a flat heartbeat.)

I have therapy this afternoon. I have a good feeling, folks, that I’m going to have a breakthrough. I’m pretty sure that I’m going to be cured just as soon as our one hour sesh is over. CURED. Stamp it in my file. Whammo. YESSSSS.