Gotta love those drinking dreams. (The best part of them is waking up and realizing that I haven't.)
In this one, I was at a banquet of sorts--I think it was a reception for a wedding. At my feet, under the table in a plastic bag, were two 40s of malt liquor, but I think, at that point, I'd already had a few because I knew I was drunk, but I was playing it off pretty well and nobody had noticed yet. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and, when I got back to the table, my late father had pulled the bag from underneath the table and was pointing at it wordlessly.
Cut to the next day with me lying on the floor in the living room of some indeterminate house. My head was throbbing and I knew I wanted More but I also knew that some disappointed person would be coming over with a pill for me to take, a pill that would make me violently ill if I were to take it while intoxicated. Fuck it, I thought to myself, as I prepared to gain my feet to stumble to the fridge where some booze was surely waiting for me. I'm a-goan get me some.
The door was squeaking. The door was Squeaking. The Door Was Squeaking!
Oliver is upstairs, whining intermittently, telling me, non-drunk me, that he needs to go Outside to empty his bladder. I'm awake. It was just a dream. A dream slashed with shame, but just a dream nonetheless. My head is throbbing, though, but it's only because I slept with two pillows, a luxury that I just don't need, and a luxury that wreaks havoc on my neck.
Using dreams. What a cliche. But they do occur and they do suck. The Booze Beast flies closest, sometimes, at night, when the Id is awake and watchful and the Consciousness is on vacation. It's always nice to awaken amid a wild flurry of feathers. Kinda like a sock-it-to-'im type thing.