(no subject)

Weirdass dreams last night. About wandering around with Roland, a boy who was not Jake yet somehow, and my cat. We stopped at a farm place where a woman was living with her son, and then her ex husband came home waving around a gun, really drunk. I tricked him into lighting himself briefly (and not really dangerously) on fire. Then she told me to take her boy and run inside, we did, and the man in a fit of drunken stupidity shot his son. Roland debated, out loud and half with me, half with himself, on taking the man to ... what I can only describe as the Dark Tower version of a hell dimension. I think it involved Sayre. Towards the last part of while he was doing this, I called up someone, started speaking with a thick and almost caricaturized Southern drawl. So were they. We talked for a while, then they came up the stairs and healed the boy. I was still on the phone becaus apparently they can't talk. They just talk through telephones. Weird human-looking people from other worlds. Then Roland said we were done here, so we picked up our boy and my cat and left. Apparently I was his ... little portable rose. This kind of makes sense. And yet, I'm dreaming about it.

Oh yeah. Roland looked like the bastard child of Stephen King and Tommy Lee Jones.

Does that seem right to you?


ETA: And lo, the one day I'd actually like to go home and get writing done, is the one day the numbers crash and they don't send anyone home.

Bastards.