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Subconscious weirdness.

I've always had a slightly odd subconscious. Those of you who know me well will remember me talking about some of the slightly less normal dreams I have on a regular basis... the caterpillar that bit me and I started shrinking, the midget in a cartoonishly oversized ten gallon hat chasing me down the street with a gun, the night I managed to continue a dream I started the night before. I've had dreams about flying that were so vivid I can still remember how it physically felt to run down the street as fast as I could, leap as high as possible and start doing the breast stroke in mid air (because that's how you fly, you see). I've had bad ones too, where the flat came alive and wouldn't let me out (had that one twice, in two different settings), where loved ones die, or where Himself cheated on me (that one was so vivid I woke up the next morning still mad).

The dreams I'm having now can only be attributed to pregnancy hormones scrambling my brains. They're not just weird, most of them are STUPID. Last week, I had three dreams in one night, they are as follows:

1. Two girls I worked with at SPEX (tee hee) didn't realise I was on the other side of a booth in the bar when they were talking about how to get out of inviting me on a night out.

2. Loading a jacket potato with chili and having a very in depth conversation with a guy I've only met twice (again, SPEX colleague).

3. The sproglet was born with a full set of teeth, and began aging from the second it escaped my uterine gulag, so fast it looked like a five year old before we made it out of the hospital.

Then, of course, yesterday I read a list of ways to "predict" if you're having a boy or a girl, saw something about how if your leg hair grows more quickly than normal it's a boy... and dreamed I had two inch hair on my legs having shaved the day before.

Why can't I dream I'm having a lusty affair with, oh I don't know, Hugh Laurie? Sean Bean? Christian Bale? My subconscious seems to refuse to allow me to have those "normal" dreams that most women seem to have about celebrities. I mean, Alan Davies just doesn't count. Maybe it's because Himself is so hot my subconscious can't do any better? *cheese eating grin* I think I'll leave this one here before I dig a hole I'm not capable of leaping over in a single bound. I hope you're all having bizarre dreams right now in my honour. x

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