It's Go Time

Last night I dreamt I was in a war zone.

It started off simply enough, I was Trudy from Mad Med and Pete the d-bag had made us buy these new contacts. So, since they were stolen from the eyes of Colombians, the Colombians came and kidnapped us from our house (Dallas house, not Mad Men NYC house) and started a war on eyes with the U.S. We escaped with our eyes, just barely, but by then I was me again, and I had met up with some U.S. rebels and we were fleeing towards who knew where. We may have been off to my old high school as refuge, but I'm not sure.

Anyway, the enemy had set off some wicked shrapnel bombs. I don't even know if these things exist, but they're bombs that, when they land, just shoot off shrapnel everywhere, and there were thousands of these things going off in the area. We tried to dodge as much as we could, but after walking for about a mile or so after the first wave, I realized I had a horrible pain in my shoulder. That's when everyone saw that I had flimsy, burning tin-foil plastered to my shoulder. At that point, they peeled it off, which felt more pleasant, but a lot wetter and sun-burny, than a Band-Aid.

While we were trying to find an appropriate bandage (I am immunosuppressed after all, can't have a giant open wound!), we were ambushed first by bees, then by the enemy, and then by British soldiers sent to help. We went with them, and then I woke up.

So, President Obama, where's my Purple Heart?