Nyer nyer

I don't really like dreaming. I mean, actual dreaming, not daydreaming.

I keep having bad dreams, you see. Or weird ones which leave me unsettled for the rest of the day.

Stupid dream this evening. Something about ghosts turning up in all my photos, and for some reason, the rooms in my house were stretched, so the lights we had couldn't light up the extra space properly. You should have seen those photos. I don't ever want to, anyway. They had figures of people...hanging themselves, and contorted, and...oh shit...

All right. Okay. Enough.

I hate this. Hate this hate this hate this.

Just when I thought that everything's okay and going well, I dream about these things and get scared.

Er yeah. Over active imagination.

But you try believing that what you're seeing in your sleep is real.

All real. Too real.

OH NOES.

Right. More Pratchett. The second half of Going Postal is back to the whole insane tone of the previous books. Like doing a mental cha-cha or something. Delightful.

And you get lovely lines like -

Moist was sure that doctors kept skeletons around to cow patients. Nyer, nyer, we know what you look like underneath...He quite approved, though.

Or...

He'd also sent letters to Offler, Om and Blind Io, all important gods, and also to Anoia, a minor goddess of Things That Stick in Drawers*.

*Often, but not uniquely, a ladle, but sometimes a metal spatula or, rarely, a mechanical egg-whisk that nobody in the house admits to ever buying. The desperate mad rattling and the cries of 'How can it close on the damn thing but not open with it? Who bought this? Do we ever use it?' is as praise unto Anoia. She also eats corkscrews.

**I think she also eats scissors, you know, those scissors which you knew you'd left somewhere in one of the drawers, but for some reason, always disappears when you want it. And turns up in places you never expected when you don't want it***.

***The unexplainable displacement is usually due to certain individuals, I've noticed.

Economics test AGAIN tomorrow.

A terrible thought that cannot be thoughted. Oh dearie me.