NyQuil Fog

So I’ve been pretty sick lately, and none of my normal creature comforts are giving me any relief. I’m just bored, and sick and tired of being sick and tired, so I decide to take my double gulp of NyQuil a little early and hit the sack. I cuddle up in bed amongst all my blankets and animals and put on SVU so I can stare at Detective Benson until I fall asleep. But it’s hot. No wait, it’s freezing in here. Is the air even working? I finally settle with one bare foot and arm hanging out of the covers. Ahhh. Finally getting comfortable. I can barely make out Detective Benson on the tv. She’s so …. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

 Suddenly I’m in the interrogation room and Roseanne is pounding the table and hammering questions at me. “Wait, who the hell are you?”

“I told you I’m Detective Benson.”

“Nuh-uh. You’re totally not hot.”

“Honey, that’s all done with lighting and makeup, no one on tv is really hot.”

“Well, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings or anything, but you’re totally messing with one of my favorite fantasies, so could you maybe go get Fin or something. Maybe he can say something painfully obvious in his gangster voice. That’s always hilarious.”

The dog is barking. More like yelping. Maybe her leg is caught in a bear trap and she’s trying to gnaw it off. I have to find her! Someone hits me in the stomach. I open one eye and see that Scout is dreaming as well. Her legs, all four in perfect working order, are running through the air and her floppy lip barely lifting with each high pitched dream bark. Maybe she’s chasing a rabbit. I won’t ruin it for her. Reality is slippery right now and my eye slides closed. I hear dripping in the bathroom and reluctantly get up to check it out. The faucet is dripping. Drip. Drip. Drip. I turn the knob as hard as I can, but it continues to drip. I try turning it again, only this time the friction from the ridges on the knob rips my skin and now I’m bleeding. The faucet drips, my hand drips. Clear drip. Red drip. Clear Drip. Red Drip. I watch the blood and water swirl down the drain for a minute, then look down at my hand. There is no pain, but half of the skin on my hand is peeled back, like taking off a wet glove. Ok, I have to be dreaming, right? I tell myself in my dream to go back to sleep and I walk toward the bed, my skin glove flopping against my thigh with every step. The dog’s leg is in a bear trap. I have to help her. Then I hear Fin is in ultra-cool street voice, “Yo! Cough medicine makes you dream some crazy shit!” The sound of my own giggle wakes me up. The dog continues to chase her dream rabbit. I scratch her head to wake her up just in case she’s dreaming some crazy shit too. Then I start the next episode of SVU.