This is the first time in my entire life when smoking a cigarette actually stops my lungs from hurting. I don’t normally smoke, but damn, that was a hellofa relief. Once again, my firebending ways save the day. (Oh, and before you get concerned, I’m okay, it was just an allergic reaction. I’m not dying. Yet, anyway.)

My creativity seems to be its own organism, where I need to constantly feed it to help it grow. I need creative people around me, to do crazy things together, and to bounce ideas off of. I haven’t felt very creative as of late. Well, that’s not entirely true, I keep writing down ideas and working on my artist’s eye, but I don’t feel like I’m getting anything done, as I did when I was around other artists. Maybe I need a motivation. Maybe that’s what being around creative people does for me. Maybe I’m just stir crazy.

I had a dream that my eye was bleeding. The rest of the dream was strange, but that was probably the most normal part. Every so often I would look down, and there would be blood on my hand. I would wipe it off nonchalantly, and go about the rest of the dream. I looked in a mirror at one point, and my eye was otherwise normal, but the white of my eye was completely red. I kept thinking about that all day. Now, I’m the type of eccentric that dwells on the meanings of my nighttime meanderings, and in fact my dreams and what they mean are so interesting to me that I’m probably more obsessed with it than I should be,  but this time it was a lot different. Life was imitating my subconscious.

First, when I told Micah about the dream, his first instinct was to look straight into my left eye, the one that bled in the dream, and sure enough, there was a big red blotch on the white of my eye. That happens to me from time to time when I get a migraine, as the dilation of the blood vessels in that part of my head leads to that sort of thing. But I didn’t have a migraine last night. Also, I realized later that my eye in the dream matched the draft of the mural Micah is painting on posterboard in the living room. He’s got an eye in the center, with a mushroom cloud iris and a grayish-red outer eyeball. When he was painting it, I asked him why that part of the eye was red, and he said that he was trying to do a design with bloodshot eyes, but he couldn’t get it just right, so he was starting over with red, to make it more stark-looking, and probably do the veins in black. Weird, right?

Him: (passing me in the hall) I love you, wifey.

Me: (kissing him on the cheek) I love you too… husband..ey?

         wait a second to figure out what just happened…

       (following him into the living room) Wait, when the hell did we get married? Did you put a roofie in my drink again and        take me to city hall?

Him: Maybe… (then chuckles to himself)

Me: You’re like the most ineffective rapist ever, you know that? “Yeah, I chloroformed you and then painted your toenails.”.

Him: Hey, hey, I also bathed you in pepto bismal and shaved your elbows with peanut butter. Don’t judge me. That’s what I like.

Me: Not judging you, well, except for that mental image. Ew. Just, next time we get married, can I be conscious?

These are the kinds of conversations we have in this apartment. I think this means that we’re both too weird to be with anyone else.