I dreamt last night that I got a huge mustachioed Russian man as a sugar daddy and the only thing I had to do in return is deliver and use for dream logic this harmful(but non deadly) grey liquid and I had to find nice big receptacles too for the liquid in between but that's besides the point.
I would pick this liquid up from it's vat somewhere in walking distance and then pour into some laundry machine of sorts while he assured me that it's not deadly if it falls on me as it did so many times in the dream. Then, he had a daughter I was supposed to look interested in also to keep him as my sugar daddy and I won't get into the sex part. Not with the daughter! thank god, no! With the Big Russian man with the mustache. With the daughter I was supposed to be like a dear playful mommy figure and I was so bored. Then, the big russian sexed me the minute the kid left the room. WTF. It was actually disgustingly explicit for reasons that are not completely obvious.
Then, I dream that my mother, sister, and I got stuck in a mall and just stopped to go to the bathroom but instead we all came upon the worlds most beautiful and large restaurant- outdoor and indoor and it was filled with Africans who now were considered the highest of American society and had no interest in our presence. They all had heavy African accents etc. There was buffets and buffets of gourmet soul food - neverending food that we couldn't eat. We tried. This made us happy because it was expensive to eat and we in this dream were broke and so we kept stealing scraps to see if it was good and we'd releivedly inform eachother that it was unedible.
We kept losing each other in this vast vast restaurant and finding eachother and in the end they let us out to a very complicated trap door that entails us swimming to our destination and we were very worried about my mothers swimming skills the whole time. And, finally safe outside... this very trippy mall ...our beat up car ...and great relief that we didn't get a ticket because we didn't see the sign that said no parking etc.
Make of it what you will, blog. I never thought of sex with bea arthur or a large russian man or gourmet soul food, I swear.
I hate calling you blog, blog. It's cutesy kinda . Fern McFern sees all, but I need to pretend you are not just some inert HTML code or whatever it is that allows this kind of impossible to comprehend communication.
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