What the hell did I eat...?

[ysobelle]

So this morning brought one of my weirder dreams. I was doing some kind of show, selling my corsets at an art school. We were up on one of the top floors, and there were skylights, letting in a cool, blue-grey light. Once the show was over, kylecassidy and jenny_fur were going to meet me there so we could, at long last, do the photo shoot of her wedding gown.

As the show was winding down, I wandered around a little, checking out the other artists. One tall, punk-ish, tattoo'd artist I came across had interesting pieces-- corsets? art wear?-- and I looked him and his girlfriend up in the book given as a program. It turned out he was an habitual murderer. People, animals, whatever came across his path, he'd eventually kill in some gruesome and elaborate manner. And yet people clamored to be his friend because he was just so...cool? Charismatic? Dangerous? But I was horrified. I saw that he had cats-- and it was explained that one day, instead of killing them, he and the girlfriend decided to keep a few: it was interesting to them that they had cats as pets yet continued to kill cats as art. Much like, I suppose now, they kept friends while still murdering people artistically. There was some reason he hadn't been arrested yet. Perhaps the police liked his art? No idea.

I made my way down endlessly narrow, winding stairs until I got all the way to the ground floor, where there was a street cafe for the students and general public. I figured I'd wait for Kyle and crew there. And then I heard the students talking: horrible, racist stuff. It was endemic, and completely casual. I was horrified yet again. Eventually, when everyone arrived-- snugglyevil was there, and someone whom I believe was Trillian, though we've not yet met-- we made our way back upstairs. For some reason, the stairs were actually painful to climb. I may have been in a corset, they may have been ridiculously steep and high, it may just be because Christen's been kicking my ass on the Stairmaster. But we got up there to a studio, and I couldn't say anything to anyone about the murdering artist, or the racist students.

And we couldn't find the wedding dress.

Thank G-d the phone rang.