Punishing jerks by slapping “I Support The Westboro Baptist Church” bumper stickers on their cars.
I propose we change the meaning of “weekend” to mean “long enough to watch an entire television series from beginning to end.”
Last night, I had quite a few strange, vivid dreams, but the final one seemed the most poignant.
I found myself in the house where I grew up, in the living room with 2 other people. From another room came a small, sickly-looking beagle, followed by a woman carrying an open box. She announced that the dog was dying, and set the box on a counter. I could see that in the box lay a small clock, covered in a thin layer of fur. The clock was counting down, with only a few minutes left.
The dog was weakly going to each person in the room, and each person was trying to do what they could to comfort him. Finally, he came to me, and tried to hop up to put his paws on my knees. I began to cry as I pet his head and scratched his ears, knowing that his time was coming to an end and that there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I glanced at the furry clock on the counter and saw that there were no more than 30 seconds left.
The dog slowly walked to the middle of the room. I looked back at the clock and watched as it approached 00:00, and heard the last breath. As I watched the little dog pass away, he seemed to collapse in on himself, looking less like a dog and more like another small box. The clock on the counter disappeared.
I unabashedly bawled. Utterly hopeless, I watched as the object on the floor that used to be a dog seemed to open. From out of the box crawled a beagle puppy, very obviously the same dog, reborn.
Inside the box was a small clock, counting down.
Then I woke up.
My internet addiction is getting alt of ctrl