Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day (cleanskies) wrote,
Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day
cleanskies

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randomness, cold feet, bad dream, spam

Later this week I will have a story to tell. This morning, however, all I can offer is a funny joke, a disturbing dream, and a few fragments of pretty spam.

Feeling a bit whrrrrr? Don't worry, it happens to every man occasionally.

In the dream I was wandering about under an underpass where there were a lot of weird items I decided were probably art. It seemed like an odd place for a gallery, but there was lots of space and it was undeniably atmospheric in a concrete island sort of way so hmm, OK.

Looking around the weird stuff I found a crevice between two concrete blocks which someone had lined with a substance made to look like the green-brown-black matter that grows around dripping water, except in this case it had been fashioned into impassive faces (about human sized, but a little flatter). As I paid them attention, they opened their eyes and started muttering. Impressed by the quality of the puppetry, I leaned closer, trying to see if they were motion-activated.

As my hand strayed close to it (it looked slimy, so I wasn't planning on touching it) the eyes rolled towards me, and slender fingers grew out of the matter, formed a rudimentary hand and reached for my fingers. I jumped a bit, but then decided to see if it was responsive enough to grip my hand. The fingers were cold though dry, and felt rubbery and oddly loose, as if the skin were a layer outside the actual object.

The fingers wrapped around my hand, and seemed to become more realistic, and the thought that it might instead of a puppet be some performance artist with too much devotion to his craft made me wrench my hand loose, stumbling over backwards. Except I brought the hand with me, still clamped to my wrist, attached to a forearm which waved back and forth disconcertingly. I spun it, but the stump looked healed-over and blank and gave me no clue how to detach it from me or put it back where it belonged.

The faces were muttering louder, and the hand geting tighter around my arm, while I sat there on the cold damp concrete wondering what to do. (At which point, to my relief, I woke up.)

This spamster is writing lyrics for a song:

(Be a sin)If I can't help falling in love with you
To the sea (Oooh)So it goesSome things are meant to be
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Like a bottle of popA bottle of 7-UpYou better let it

This one just made me laugh:

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