But, anyway... that is why I support the NRA.
I was telling the panther (and I keep pronouncing it as 'painter' in my head, because he's mentioned once or twice that that's how you say in in North Carolina) about a dream I had where doctors had to put this big, honkin' piece of plastic in my lungs to siphon off mucous or something. And then we couldn't find the car in the parking lot, because it had been crushed by something... there was a big crater in the ground, taking up about three spaces. And the hospital, which had two main towers connected by a bridge like a big H, got run into by a plane just like... yeah, I think you know what I'm talking about. Then, once I'd gotten out of that building, I had to go on a quest with some other people to trail some sort of mystical thing whose calling card was glitter. After I attempted to explain all of this, the exchange went thusly:
Him: You have some serious, serious issues.
Me: Yes, but what exactly are those issues?
Him: ... I have no idea.
If anyone knows, please, clue me in. Otherwise you'll have to hear the David Schwimmer>skeletal horses dream again, and you don't want to hear that. Or the Bird Wars dream... and that one is just disgusting and morbid and gross.
Yeah. Bird Wars. Don't question my subconscious; it's way more creative than I am.
