rm | naps are bad

I should probably be a lot more upset by this than I am. Anyone who has any thoughts on what the fuck is up with this, feel free.

Everyone told her she should be a whore. Because that's what women did then if they needed to make money. She even went to two fortune tellers, and they both tolder her to be a whore to, of course, they were paid by the madam in question, to tell women exactly that, but fortune is just what's supposed to happen anyway.

The house was in a freestanding wood building with the crimson flag with gold lettering on it. She went inside.

One day a friend comes to visit, and she comex out to meet her. She is dressed in a just about the ankle length dress -- white, cotton or linen or some such, with a crimson pannel down the front from top to bottom, with a long gold humag seleton on it, done in the manner of early Celtic drag drawings. She stands with her feet wide, like a man.

"How have you been?" the friend asks.

She hikes her dress up. Her pussy lips are instead four fleshy portions of a baby's head, mishapen like a rotting apple, but clean and ordinary. Her friend says to cut them off.

"We don't do that here," she says.

Later, she comes to visit my house. It's a fine, harmless thing, but it is eons later as we are now in the modern world, and those portions are now shredded tendrils, like a dress that drags on the ground. She is dressed the same, and we know she is coming because she speaks to the cat in the window.

There were also other bits of the dream involving the Iraq war (in which Kat and I were fighting and dealing with guys on our team giving us doom and gloom grief because we had very little ammo because no one saw fit to give us any, and we were all "hey, we _hit_ the stuff we shoot, no worries."), a computer server room heaped up with matresses at odd angles, me pumping up the crowd before the John Stewart show, and a pigeon, flying in circles and dragging an open umbrella in its beak.