Rock Bottom

A while ago, I commented at Stale Betty's site that while dreaming about blogging is bad, composing blog posts during sex is even worse.

But I think I've hit rock bottom with this one.

Last night I dreamt that a delivery person brought me food (of course, I dream about this all the time). The handsome thirty-something delivery man insisted on bringing the food into my home and setting it all up for me. I started eating and he flirted with me for a while.

I began to feel really warm and he explained to me that he had stuck around to deliver the most important part of my dining experience. The massage.

I was feeling languid and oddly sleepy and while I kept wondering if it was strange for him to make such an offer, I let him do what he would.

Things got rather, well, heated, but I couldn't resist the urge to fall asleep.

When I awoke, half of my stuff was gone. And what was left was vandalized and stabbed with a large knife.

I was still feeling sleepy and dazed, but as I wandered around our house from place to place I realized that he had drugged me, had his way with me, and then raped and pillaged my home.

This was also when I suddenly came to realize that I was married. And I was going to have to explain what I had done to both the police and my husband.

And my primary and recurring thought through all of this? Wow. Now I really have something to blog about!

Not only did I dream about blogging, but I dreamt about composing blog posts while having sex.

That's fucked up.