I have a lot of peculiar dreams. Some I remember. Others … not so much.
Two from last night were extra weird.
In one, my feet had been cobbled together from leather and wood like boots; they were worn down and falling apart. One had a huge hole in it, and parts of the soles were held together with nails. I removed some of the nails and suddenly couldn’t walk without limping and leaving blood trails. I had to cancel a TV appearance (or maybe a job interview, I’m not sure) to go to the ER. I limped into the trauma unit and collapsed after explaining to a doctor that these were old gunshot wounds that had suddenly reopened. When I regained consciousness I was in a hospital bed, breathing oxygen from a mask; there was porn showing on the TV; a nurse explained to me very apologetically that my insurance wouldn’t cover the surgery to fix my feet, so all they could do was give me some ointment for the wounds and send me home. I complained and pointed out that my wife worked at the hospital. They didn’t care, and they sent me away.
The second dream: I wasn’t even in it. It had something to do with a man whose self-esteem is all tied up in his signature socks; after he loses his favorite pair while doing a favor for a woman, he becomes suicidal. She finds the socks stuck to the bottom of her car while having the tires rotated at a garage, and the mechanic charges her $150 to recover the socks for her. She protests but pays the fee, and realizes she has to hurry back to her suicidal friend—
—and that’s where the doorbell woke me up, for a UPS delivery.