I got shot last night. Well, in a dream I got shot. It was madness, I tell ya, MADNESS!
The strangest thing was that after the shooting (in the belly with a 10 gauge, apparently, although the person who did it used a pistol. I saw the surveillance footage on the news from my hospital bed. How they managed to hit me straight on in the belly while shooting at our car from the driver's side is anyone's guess) I went through the whole process of going to the hospital, having surgery, coming out of anesthesia, and somehow learned all of the following:
The five people involved in attempting to kill Ashley Van Driesche, someone else in the backseat, and myself were so comically inept as to tag their names all over my presumably soon-to-be dead body. The girl who actually pulled the trigger (a minor who was forced into the role of reaper by the four adults in the car because she would only do a few years) left a strangely heartfelt note about how I was going to get better and have a great life...well, she left that note on my left arm. Additionally, there was a note (also on my arm. This was all on my left arm.) indicating that the author hoped I would die. And he called me a bastard. Charming.
Now. Why did they do it? Well, apparently they were not impressed by the cat emblem on the specially-ordered license plate of our car. I guess they thought it was a little "too gay." Words were exchanged, tempers flared, I took a slug in the belly. So thanks a lot, Ashley. If you hadn't ordered that "Cat Lover For Life!" license plate, I wouldn't have been shot.
At the hospital, I walked in on my own...I think I walked in on my own. I had no recollection of what had transpired, I was in a ridiculous amount of pain, and I was going all crazy diva soap-opera-star-having-her-big-daytime-Emmy-scene. Well, it was perhaps slightly less dramatic than some of my actual hospital visits, but it was pretty pathetic. After a bit, they started giving me shots. I would ask what they were giving me and they would name drugs that didn't exist. At some point they realized that the drugs weren't getting into me due to the fact that my abdominal cavity was flooding with precious blood from a nicked artery (fancy that, shot in the guts and I got a "nicked artery") (which, yeah, I know it doesn't make a lot of sense but it's a dream so just go with it) and the nurse shoves the IV tube into a hole in my gut (presumably not the bullet wound) and suction, suction, suction.
We were somewhere around O.R., in the center of the hospital, when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like, "I have a high tolerance. You should give me more."
I went under. I woke up. It was the social event of the season in that waiting room. Everyone who's anyone (at least in my life) was in that waiting room. I valiantly trudged out of the recovery room and swore my revenge.
Flash forward: I have insisted that charges be dropped. I have informed the police that I'll be killing those sons'a'bitches myself. It seems the police in dreamland are more inclined to allow a vigilante a bit of leeway. I moved into a house with a trusty sidekick (we were both pathetically addicted to the narcotics prescribed to combat our now-undeniable agony, but not in junky way, more like in a rugged, handsome, "watch as I bravely slog my way through misery and suffering to exact my righteous revenge on the monsters who wronged me and I may need some chemical assistance along the way" kind of way) and began to carry out...some sort of...wait. Why aren't these bastards dying?!
Things got more and more confused after that. It seems I was not actually this Timothy-Olyphant-the-star-of-Justified-out-for-revenge guy all the time. No, this was more of a United States of Tara sort of scenario...well, not really. I'll explain. It seems I had this wife (never saw her, this was all in voice-over) who needed a really supportive husband. A really supportive husband. One who would invent a scenario where he was shot by a roving gang of psychotic youth and subsequently spent years developing a heavy narcotics addiction while tracking the perpetrators purely to (I guess) give her life some spice. In the next episode, I still looked like Timothy Olyphant, only dressed up all metrosexual.
That's right. The last several minutes (in dreamtime) consisted of a preview for the next episode of "Ross acts like a psycho to keep his dream wife amused (since dream-Ross is apparently not gay)" and it made no sense whatsoever. And in a way the whole thing made sense.
Isn't it strange how that works? I'm only scratching the surface of how much stuff happened in this dream.
I hope when we die it's like dreaming forever.
Love,
Ross
