an open letter to my subconcious

Dear Slumbering Subconcious,

I really appreciate the little vacations you give me every night and sometimes, when I pass out on the couch in a drug-induced haze while watching Battlestar Galactica SO SAY WE ALL MOTHERFUCKER fall asleep in the living room. I especially love when I can take aspects out of them and use them to write woefully disturbing stories. Zombie dreams are always fun. Or the ones about finding parts of my house that I didn't ever know existed before? Those are good, too.

But, if you're going to send me sex dreams about celebrities, can you at least make them about people I wouldn't terribly mind getting naked with?

Just so you know, making out with Glen Danzig is not exactly an idea that fills me full of joy and song. I'm fairly certain I would rather eat my own hair, actually.

Love,

tara

P.S.
FUCKING EW.

P.P.S.
EW. EW. EW. EW.

(no subject)

Here lies Tara: she finally convinced a Canada goose to get into her car.