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Thursday, January 26, 2006

Not for the Squeamish  
Isn't it annoying when people tell you their dreams? They're only interesting to the person who dreamt them. And, perhaps, to Freudian psychoanalysts. Well, analyze away.

I had a dream last night that I accidentally cut myself on the back of my left leg. I didn't pay it much mind, figuring it wasn't that bad and would heal on its own, so I just wrapped a bandage around it. A couple days later I was visiting a friend. We went out to a club and while there I realized that my wound was quite a bit worse than I thought. It was a deep gash running the length of my calf. It wasn't bleeding, but the edges hadn't knit together, so that they flopped open. Inside my flesh was decaying and maggots were crawling around. I could see clumps of dead flesh in the wound. I became alarmed and wasn't sure what to do. I knew it needed to be flushed out and stitched up. My friend said she would drive me to the hospital. I wasn't sure which hospital to go to, or if I should actually be going to urgent care instead. I was worried about my insurance coverage and wanted to do it right so I wouldn't be stuck with a huge bill. I found my insurance info and got in the car to go. My friend was taking too long so I left her and drove myself. I got to the hospital and showed the front desk nurse my wound. Then I woke up.

The oddest part is that this wasn't a nightmare.