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collective-laugh · 5 years

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Detective AU - Muriel x MC Chapter 5

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four

@a-zoidberg-aesthetic@lesbiancountess @fartkittyonline @yaysam@y-all-dnt-ve@countgoatman-and-drleechboy @julians-chest-hair@vesuviass @caterpiller-tea @saltywerewolfrebel @obsessedwiththearcana@thatsaltyseaman@xburningwitch @i-dont-speak-wolf@missrabbitart @softarcana @ethereal—pisces @cfluffiness @lhm-2001

Chapter Song Inspiration: “It’s a Sin” by Eddy Arnold Summary: Asra finally gets some insight to the events of the past...and meets with a mysterious stranger

Chapter 5: Sin

“Do you have any intent to marry me, Asra?”

The question startled him, though he figured it was bound to happen sooner or later. People were getting married left and right, especially with the war finally ending, and he knew how important stability was to her, how much she needed it.

Her question didn’t have the malice he expected, though. It was concise, neat, like she’d been playing it in her head, over and over again, like she was deciding exactly how she wanted to say it.

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to tell her that the ring in his pocket was shaped just for her finger, or how he was, in fact, planning on marrying her.

She wasn’t angry, or even disappointed. Her expression was neutral, like that of the nun who used to smack her ruler against his knuckles.

The shock wears off before it’s too late to save the subject, and he puts on that charming grin he was so used to getting into trouble for. His arm winds around her waist, pulling her flush against him, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“Intentions are nothing, sweetheart.” His lips are soft as they trace the curve of her jaw, “I’m gonna marry you.”

She smiles, thrilled and seduced, and so very, very in love, tilting her head back just enough for him, “And what if the war sweeps you away from me?”

“I promised you, right?” He kisses her jaw, “I’m gonna marry you, one of these days.”

She pulls away, rolling her eyes, “One day soon?”

He kisses her, full on the mouth, tipping her chin, “Very, very soon.”

The train jolts, knocking his head against the window and pulling him out of the altogether unpleasant memory - dream? Dream of a memory? He didn’t know the terminology.

He checks to be sure that he still has his bag and that everything is still in place, and that Faust wasn’t hurt in the commotion. He was still shaken from the memory, and knew that he hadn’t been wrong in saying that intentions were nothing.

Obviously, as he was still entirely unmarried and she was still without a spouse.

The thought has tears springing to his eyes, and with the way the woman adjacent to him was already looking up at him from her book, he wasn’t too keen on her judgemental stares - though, he thinks, Faust was bound to draw a few confused looks.

He should’ve married her then, under the stars. She would’ve loved that, he knows, just he and her and the priest to have them hitched, and…

Fuck, his intentions were shit, and he felt like shit.

And he wasn’t an idiot. He saw how Muriel looked at her. But when he had her, he felt like…

He felt immune, like there was nothing that could tear them apart, like they would be married and have babies and have a normal life, and he would go work in an office and they could manage the house and they would be together -

Instead, she was stuck in that damp hole in the wall, all on her own.

He couldn’t help but hate himself for that.

At least Muriel was there for her. Maybe he’d finally make a goddamn move.

He stands, silently excusing himself from the cart and making his way to the lavatory, pushing past the steward, tears stinging his eyes and Faust curling. Blessedly, no one else had the same idea and he's free to bawl his eyes out while he slides down the door, idly reaching up to lock the door.

He hiccups, pulling his legs to his chest, and it's so overwhelming, thinking of her, of who she used to be, and the fact that everyone around her couldn't help but to fall in love with her.

A shaky hand reaches into his pocket, pulling the simple golden wedding band free, sobbing into his hand.

He’s known for a long time now that he’d never really have her, not like she was. She was still the woman he fell in love with all those years ago, but there was more than that - or, less, he supposed, considering she didn’t even remember who she was.

He was still in love with her, in the little things she did, in the way she scrunched her nose when she was annoyed or how she would dance when the radio managed to croak out a song she felt deserved to be graced with the sway of her hips.

Sometimes, if he was daring enough, he’d stand up and dance with her - not like there was much work coming in nowadays anyway - and spin her just so, and she’d smile at him in just a way that nearly convinced him that she could possibly feel something for him the way he felt for her.

But he knew better, knew better than to believe that she could feel anything other than confused. It was only a matter of time before she asked about her family, who she was before, what, exactly, drove her to him in the first place.

Or, more terrifying, it was a matter of time before she tired of the waiting game and left.

He couldn’t blame her for wanting to leave, but it might just kill him.

He could live with her moving on, with finding someone new, even if it was Muriel, or Doctor Devorak, or some other man who deserved to be loved by her, and he was grateful for having felt it, even briefly, no matter how much he craved more.

He could live with her staying, with her complacency. With the two of them living together and solving their cases and just trying to make ends meet. He could live with pretending like he didn’t love her anymore, as long as he knew she was alright.

But the world was cruel, and she had only seen hard times.

Faust headbutts him, concern written across her little snake face, and he wished that she could talk, that he could ask her advice, for anyone’s advice, really, because the longer this went on, the more taxing it became.

And then, like a sign from god, Faust nudges the ring in his hand. He takes a shaky breath, the tears finally stopping, but a sob threatening to rack his chest again. He stands, careful not to jostle Faust too much, and stands before the toilet, truly unsure if he was ready to do this, or, hell, if it was the right thing to do, but he couldn’t hold on anymore, couldn’t…

The ring lands in the toilet in time with his stomach dropping, and it hurts, so damn much.

But it’s swept away with the flush of the toilet, and he has to put a hand on the far wall to steady himself because he was genuinely frightened that he would topple at any given moment.

Faust wraps herself around his neck, and he walks back to his cart in a half-daze, never having felt so simultaneously free, yet stuck.

He practically falls into his seat, letting his hand rest in his hand, and the woman doesn’t even bother trying to hide her stares behind her book this time.

Fine. Let her stare.

Maybe he was being selfish, lying to her, keeping her there, giving her the job and holding onto her with every fiber of his being, but there was too much on the line otherwise. Losing her was...too much.

He does get off on the Nevivon stop, though. He wouldn’t lie to her about that.

But, that didn’t stop him from lying about his intent -

No, he didn’t lie. He said it was business. Actual, money-making business, that would hopefully save them all from the pits of poverty.

He’s set to meet the client at a diner that Dr. Devorak has probably frequented at some point, and another pang of guilt hits him at the thought of the doctor.

The diner is quaint, if a little tacky and decidedly understaffed, though there’s only one customer, sitting in a booth, without anything in front of her. He figures that she’s either the client, or she’s some passerby he’s about to start an awkward conversation with.

“Detective?” The woman asks, voice stern and experienced, and it genuinely rattles Asra to his core, wondering what this woman must have seen.

He covers his nerves with a charming smile, holding his hand out to her as he stands by the booth, “Call me Asra.”

She stands and looks at his hand like it might carry some disease, but takes it, shaking it firmly, “You can help me?”

“That depends.” He jests, taking a seat, the client following suit, “So long as I’m not killing anyone, we should be fine.”

Her lips are pressed in a thin line, eyes unimpressed, and Asra got the impression that she didn’t need him to kill anyone for her.

He clears his throat and asks, “Who are we looking for?”

“My child.” Asra’s heart felt like it was swelling into his throat. These were always the worst.

The kids were usually the dead ones.

Asra nods, taking a long, deep breath, “Alright. I brought a couple of things for you to fill out - can you give me your name?”

Her eyes flit over to the waitstaff, who still refused to take their order just yet. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and her name slips out in a hushed whisper, like it could really be such a big secret. He supposed it could, though, depending on how much shit she was in.

“Nasrin.” It almost pains her to say it, but Asra tries to remain level, setting the papers in front of her.

He would make this work. For her.

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peanutbutterjelly-pie · 6 years

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A Simple Hello

Content: Dean tries to get a gorgeous guy’s attention - but it doesn’t go as expected.

A little something for @jhoomwrites‘ Reverse Emoji Ficlet Challenge

Prompt: 🎱🎧🤔

“You're pathetic, Dean.”

“Shut up, Sam!”

“Really pathetic.”

Dean grumbles some incoherent words underneath his breath and glares at Sam across the pool table, his mouth a thin line. For the last fifteen minutes he had to listen to similar accusations in a row, over and over, and it's starting to strain his nerves.

Who the hell thought it'd be a good idea to invent annoying little brothers?

“How about we carry on with our game?” Dean suggests, pointing at the colorful billiard balls which are scattered all over the table in front of them. “That's why we're here, right?”

“We're here because I needed unwind for a bit and figured it'd be nice to spend some time with you,” Sam says. “After all, you're not the worst to hang out with.”

Dean scoffs. “Jeez, I'm feeling the love.”

Truth be told, Dean had been more than happy to accompany his brother when Sam proposed some quality time. Since his high achiever of a baby brother got his fancy job at that super important law office downtown a few months ago they barely had any time just for the two of them, so Dean didn't make much of a fuss when Sam dragged him to this weird hippie café/pool hall/place-where-dreams-die, ordered them some unidentifiable drinks and pushed a billiard cue into Dean's hands right after.

So yes, Dean had been more than determined to enjoy his time with Sam.

But his resolution went straight to hell as soon as he entered the place and noticed the blue-eyed guy sitting at a table near the window.

Disheveled hair. Stubble. Strong jawline. Tanned skin. A habit of chewing his sinful lips more often than not.

In one word: gorgeous.

Dean had been unable to focus on anything else ever since he laid eyes on the man.

“Just go over there,” Sam urges, for the millionth time. “You'd regret not seizing the opportunity and I would be the one never hearing the end of that!”

Dean scowls. “Just look at the guy!” he says. “He's reading a book and has his headphones plugged in – a clear indication that he wants to be left alone.” He sighs deeply. “Not to mention the fact that he looks like a college professor or something. He's probably reading Goethe and listening to some classical shit like Vivaldi. I don't have much to offer in that area.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “You're far from stupid, Dean. You're a kindergarten teacher …”

“Yeah, glitter and unicorns.” Dean snorts. “Very impressive.”

“Just take a chance, moron!” Sam presses. “I think I saw him glancing at you a few times when you weren't looking. I'm quite sure you've got a shot.”

Dean finds himself hesitating for a moment. It sounds way too good to be true, actually.

“And how am I supposed to get his attention?”

Sam looks at him like he's an idiot. “Just go over there and say 'hello'.”

Dean blinks once, twice. “'Hello'?” he repeats incredulously. “'That's your awesome advice? 'Hello'?”

Sam pulls a face, obviously not happy with his brother's unenthusiastic response. “You're making this harder than it is.”

Dean lets his gaze linger on the guy for a moment again, noticing that he at some point abandoned his book and is now staring at his phone, his fingers gliding elegantly over the screen while he furrows his brows in concentration.

“Just look,” Dean sighs. “He's got a serious thinking face on. Probably talking with a colleague about a complicated math equation or about battle strategies of the Roman Empire. He won't be impressed by a simple 'hello'!” The sheer thought seems ridiculous. “I guess the least he'd accept is a poem recited to him in a dramatic fashion. Preferably one by Goethe, of course.”

Sam shakes his head in disbelief. “You're pathetic.”

So what?

It's not like he's the first person on the planet feeling insecure talking to man so freaking stunning you can even hear angels sing while looking at him.

“I don't know, Sammy,” Dean says. “He's just so …”

He flails with his arms, keen to show his helplessness somehow, but in the process totally forgets about the cue still in his hands.

And he rams the damned thing right into his eye!

Well, okay, he misses by maybe a mini inch, but it still hurts like fucking hell!

Dean exclaims in pain and surprise, stumbling backwards and naturally knocking down the table right behind him in the process, the glasses on top of it falling over and crashing on the ground with the loudest noise imaginable.

Great.

Every single soul in this goddamned place is suddenly looking at him – even the gorgeous guy, as Dean realizes instantly – and Dean flushes all over, wondering if it's really possible to die of mortification.

It'd be quite convenient right now.

Dean presses his hand against the painful spot way too close to his eye and moans miserably, hating his life.

What the hell did he do to deserve this?

“Are you alright?” a voice next to him asks in concern.

At first he thinks it's Sam, probably just suppressing a laugh and feigning actual worry, but just a moment later Dean's head catches up on the fact that his brother's voice isn't that gravelly deep.

No, it's someone else.

Dean cautiously blinks his eyes open and is immediately met with a gaze so intense and so blue it takes his breath away for a second.

Wow.

He never thought that the man would be even more mind-boggling up close!

“Are you okay?” the guy repeats the question, his warm hand resting on Dean's shoulder and squeezing it slightly. “This looked quite unpleasant.”

Dean turns even redder, cursing his bad luck. Figures that he'd make an utter fool of himself right in front of the first person who makes his heart flutter in ages.

“Um …” Dean answers eloquently. “I'm … I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?” the guys asks skeptically. “You're not hurt anywhere? You remember your name?”

Dean can't help his chuckle. “Yeah, man,” he says. “Dean. Dean Winchester.”

The man still doesn't seem convinced. He leans closer, inspecting the spot where the cue hit Dean right into the face, and gestures at the woman behind the main counter, his movements obviously telling her everything she needs. Just a minute later Dean feels something cold pressing onto his face, making him wince.

“Sorry,” the guy apologizes, adjusting the ice bag a little bit. “You shouldn't underestimate injuries so close to the eyes. I mean, your case doesn't look bad, you'll probably just get a bruise, but a little ice won't hurt. At least it's going to lessen the swelling.”

Dean just stares at the man, not sure what to say. He's so close, his warm breath brushing over Dean's skin, and Dean feels his brain short-circuits.

“Uh …”

“Sorry again.” The guy's cheeks tinge pink. “I'm a doctor and sometimes I can't help myself. It's a curse.”

A doctor. Of course he is.

Dean isn't surprised at all.

“I'm Castiel, by the way,” he introduces himself with a smile.

“Castiel,” Dean tries the name on his tongue. It's unusual, angelic, and he kinda likes it.

He finds himself staring at Castiel, probably looking dazed and a tiny bit besotted, and he barely notices Sam appearing suddenly beside him and dragging him to a chair nearby, his strong arms determined to make sure Dean wouldn't be stupid enough to hurt himself once again. He pats his brother's back, mumbling something that sounds like fond exasperation.

Meanwhile Castiel sits down on a stool next to him, apparently not keen to leave him alone just yet.

“You're really okay?”

The insistent concern is rather endearing, Dean has to admit. “I'm fine,” he reassures, smiling shyly. “Just … embarrassed.”

Castiel laughs. “You don't have to be. Just a few days ago I went straight into one of the glass doors at the hospital I'm working. That dumb place has way too many of those.”

Yeah, that sounds like something that would have happened to Dean too.

“Still … it's embarrassing.” He shakes his head. “Figures.”

“To be honest, I'm actually quite glad this happened,” Castiel admits. Just a second later, however, his eyes widen as he realizes how that might have sounded and he's quick to add, “Of course I'm not happy that you got hurt, Dean. I didn't mean it like that.” He squirms, looking adorably flustered. “I just … since you came in I wanted to come over and talk to you.”

Dean listens up straightaway. “Seriously?”

Did he suffer some brain damage after all, hearing things he'd want to hear?

Castiel blushes and ducks his head. “The whole time I was contemplating how I should approach you. I even texted my brother and asked for advice because he's usually way better with handling social situations like this than I am. But he merely suggested to go over to you and just say 'hello'.” Castiel rolls his eyes. “Can you believe that? 'Hello'?” He sighs deeply. “As if a simple 'hello' would be sufficient with … with someone like you.”

He gestures at Dean's everything and flushes some more.

And Sam huffs in the background, muttering something like “meant for each other”.

Dean, though … one minute he finds himself shell-shocked, just gaping slack-jawed at the stunning man in front of him, unable to actually believe what's happening right now, and then a moment later he's beaming all over the place. Like Christmas and Easter just arrived early together, walking through the door hand in hand.

Damn.

He can't remember the last time he's got so frigging lucky. And even if this indeed turns out to be the sole result of some serious concussion, it's one hell of a great hallucination.

“So … would you terribly mind if I would stay with you for a while?” Castiel asks, sounding sorta sheepish all of a sudden. “Just to be safe. Because of your injury and … stuff.”

Dean feels his heart melt. “Um … yeah, alright,” he agrees instantly. “That … that'd be nice of you.”

Castiel scoots closer right away as if he just got an invitation to forget any rules about personal bubbles ever invented. And Dean doesn't mind one bit.

On the contrary, he decreases the space between them even more as well.

“Well … read any good Goethe poems lately?” Dean asks, smirking. He even tries for a wink, but recalls his damaged face in the last moment.

Meanwhile, Castiel furrows his brows, looking rather confused for a second, before realizing that Dean's merely joking. So he answers, with as much conviction as possible, “I can't even recite one single Goethe poem to save my life.”

Dean laughs, aloud. Best news ever.

“That's really good to hear, Cas.”

And by the end of the day Dean goes back home with a serious and most likely incurable crush, a new phone number in his pocket, a bright grin on his lips and a little brother that can't stop telling him over and over again that a simple 'hello' still would have been way less painful.

#destiel #destielfanficnet #destiel drabble #fic #fluff #au #fanfiction: mine

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myaekingheart · 6 years

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Had more bizarre dreams again. One last night which was perhaps the weirdest, and then four a few nights back that I jotted down but never actually got to documenting. I’ll start with last night’s, though, since it’s still fresh in my mind.

Night of 6/9: *Also: It is very, very important to note that this was 90s Hugh Grant we are talking about here. That’s crucially important. I had a dream about Hugh Grant which hasn’t happened in ages and is the bulk of why this was so goddamn fucking uncomfortable. In the dream, he owned this really fancy movie theater and he had this really luxurious apartment. I remember being in the apartment before anything. Everything was black and dark wood and glass, very sleek and sophisticated. I remember roaming around trying to figure out where the fuck I was meant to go. I think I was trying to find the bathroom, and I found one but he was inside of it so I walked around and found another door into a bathroom at the other end of the hallway, only to find that it was a second door into the same bathroom. I was about to walk inside but then I saw him standing there with his back turned to me (and a flash of his ass oh dear god) and quickly retracted my decision. I don’t remember every single specific thing but there was another scene in the bedroom. Nothing sexual, but he had a large bed with a dark wood bed frame, and it was overlooking this giant movie screen. I was about to climb into bed with him and who I swear had to be Jan from The Office when I realized I still had my contacts in and had forgotten to pack my eye care stuff. It wasn’t forgetting my glasses that was a problem so much as not having anything to put my contacts into was. I expressed this to them which then prompted Jan to tell me that she had a spare contact case and some contact solution I could borrow, so I thanked her and went back into the bathroom to remove my lenses. After that, the scene shifted and suddenly I was walking around the lobby of the movie theater downstairs with Hugh Grant. He was talking about it saying stuff I wasn’t really paying attention, because all I could think about was how deathly terrified I was as I have always taken issue with movie theaters and these were, quite frankly, something else. The hall leading into every theater was sloped with bright, obnoxious lights on the ceiling and big double doors and it overall looked like a classic Hollywood death trap, honestly. But I couldn’t fight it. He pulled me into one of the movie theaters and I was stunned. It was huge. The ceilings were ginormous, the screen was ginormous, the seats were weird. There were padded benches in the first two rows and then I guess regular seats in the back. A fat woman in the first row looked at me while the trailers were playing and said something like “The fuck are you scared for? It’s just a big room with a screen” in this rude, gravelly, mouth-full-of-popcorn voice. After this everything kind of started to fade out but I was left with the crawling, unnerving feeling of being in Hugh Grant’s realistic dream presence. I feel like to fully understand the scope of why this is so weird for me requires some backstory. Hugh Grant was, like, my first crush for absolutely no goddamn reason. I don’t even know how the fuck it happened but I was legit three or four years old and I guess I must’ve seen him in a movie or something? I remember going to the library and checking out his movies, like 9 Months (because I also had a fascination with pregnancy and childbirth as a kid—still lowkey do) and Notting Hill. I was embarrassed about it, like when my mom connected the dots she used to tease me by mimicking him saying “oopsie daisy” in Notting Hill and I would fucking freak the fuck out. I had this very distinct dream as a child, too, where I was in a white, brightly lit room like a dressing room and I met him and he towered over me and I was so unnerved and just everything about anything Hugh Grant just…I cannot function not so much because I still think he’s attractive but because that childhood panic and weirdness is still there. Because let’s face it, when you’re three or four and you get your first crush, or at least if you’re anything like me, it’s this weird sensation where you think you’re legitimately sick and every time you look at this person, you feel this bizarre and uncomfortable feeling where you think you’re simultaneously going to explode like a firework and vomit everywhere. So yeah, because of the childhood bullshit, everything and anything Hugh Grant just brings back all of that unpleasantness and it’s gotten to the point where if he’s ever in a movie that my mom happens to turn on at any point or whatever, that sensation immediately floods back and I have no choice but to leave the room and hide until it’s all over because I just cannot fucking handle it. So yeah, this dream was…I feel like I need a shower to wash off all this mucky, uncomfortable feeling but at the same time feel like I’m gonna feel watched if I get naked, if we’re gonna be blunt about it.

EDIT: Because I am a self sadistic prick and decided to look at trailers of Hugh Grant movies now, everything makes a little more sense because for some goddamn reason, yesterday or the day before I could not get this quote of “I’m just a girl standing in front of a boy asking him to love her” out of my head and I could not for the fucking life of me remember where it was from but now I know and I’m kicking myself because apparently my subconscius knew and decided this was probably the best way to remind me so there’s that. That’s real fucking fun. Thanks, brain. Appreciate you, too.

At least my dreams from the other night were far palatable, if not also a little strange.

Night of 6/6 Dream Number One: I was in the frozen food section of a generic grocery store, probably a Walmart. There was a kid having a temper tantrum on the floor about orange juice, I think? I don’t know, this is not the first time I have dreamt this exact same scene before so I’m pretty sure that’s what it was. I walked away with my cart, and on a display shelf where there should’ve been clothes (because it was the clothes section), instead there was a shitty taco making station with weak heat lamps, questionable ground beef, rubbery soft taco shells, and just plain shredded cheese. There was hardly anything there, as in people had eaten most of it, so it’s a mystery as to why they were drawn to something so disgusting. Like damn, if you want tacos that badly just go through the drive-through at Taco Bell.

Dream Number Two: This was the weirdest of the four dreams. I was in a large room with windows all along the one wall and a long row of yellow pleather recliners facing the aforementioned windows. They were those old recliners with uncomfortable metal frames and yellowing padding that’s poking through scars in the fabric from having been used for so many years. Like the kind of thing you see in the booths of old diners. My boyfriend was laying on one, and I was either sitting or standing next to him. There were dust particles floating in the air, and everything was tinted a moldy yellow. It’s presumed this was supposed to be part of some of dingy hospital because I distinctly remember my boyfriend was there for asthma, and they kept having to hook him up to breathalyzers like when he was in the hospital for real a few months back. On the recliner next to him was a small blonde kid, I think it was a boy in blue denim overalls, who was autistic. There were a handful of women standing nearby I guess trying to give him speech therapy, urging him to say the word “charm.” They were repeating it over and over again, slowly, putting emphasis on every sound in the word so it came off almost foreign. The kid, however, was not having it. He was squirming and kicking and screaming, he wanted nothing to do with any one of them or anything. I think at one point my boyfriend leaned over and said something to him and maybe he calmed down a bit? I don’t know. All I remember is that at one point during all this commotion, my boyfriend started freaking out, not in the “I’m so frustrated with this kid” way which would’ve been far better but the “My body is going into shock and I’m on the verge of death” way like he started spluttering and his body started seizing and I started panicking and screaming and doctor’s started running over and it was quite frankly a ginormous mess and I’m insanely shocked and horrified thinking back on it.

Dream Number Three: This one is simple and stupid. I dreamt that I was in my bathroom with my childhood best friend and we were standing in front of the mirror getting ready. I just remember standing there as we were talking, watching her straighten her hair and babble endlessly about God knows what and thinking to myself, “Damn, some people really don’t ever change.”

Dream Number Four: This last dream was perhaps the second weirdest of the night. I was on the same college campus as I’ve seen in previous dreams, especially in the dream I had the night before this one (where I was met with someone strongly resembling an old friend on a bench waiting for the bus). This time, however, I was in an auditorium style classroom and I was freaked. Because, as you can probably guess, auditoriums give me the same anxiety that movie theaters tend to. So basically, you can’t take me anywhere. But anyways, I grabbed a seat at the back of the room which was the highest up you could go but also the closest to some glass double doors and had an overhanging ceiling that was at average height, both of which helped to ease my discomfort a bit. I was there for a final exam, which didn’t help the nerves. There was a kid there sitting nearby, maybe one row in front of me, who I cannot stop associating with the word Kanye, like my brain as it was narrating all of this (as it sometimes tends to in my dreams) said he was a former classmate I had in real life who resembled/was like Kanye West. I have never had a classmate like Kanye West, unless my brain is vaguely referring to a kid from middle school whose only resemblance is probably skin color, diction, and weed, but still. Either way, there was a kid “Kanye” in the row in front of me and for some reason, he handed me this squishy eyeball replica. It reminded me of this one that I got as a kid at Disney World. I was outside the Haunted Mansion and I had walked into a pole and bonked my head really hard. A nearby street vendor noticed and gave me a free squishy eyeball toy as big as my fist to help me feel better because I was three years old wailing and screaming and in pain. The eyeball in my dream was basically exactly like that, except more like a real eyeball in manufacture but not size. I remember sitting there pulling it apart while I was waiting for the exam to start. I think it was the lens that I reached, or whatever that small, hard, marble-like thing in your eye is (or maybe this is different for humans considering the only experience I have with dissecting eyeballs is in the form of a squid) that I began pressing in my hand, into my palm and between my fingers, and in a way it almost helped me feel calmer. Which is really morbid now that I think about it. Like yeah, sure, this makes total sense: “I’m feeling anxious so I’m gonna start squeezing this piece of eyeball around in my hand so I can feel better!” Like no, Amanda, shut the fuck up, that’s disgusting. But that’s also where this dream ended so I guess I’m leaving this on a morbid note, then. Oh well?

#weird dreams #ramblings

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