My dreams have been getting progressively dodgier as the days go by. But two nights ago it took the cake.
There I was, sleeping on a sofa not long enough for my entire body, legs dangling out. Goz and Beh had come up to visit and record a hip-hop track at my house so, ever the gracious host, I gave them my bed and I slept downstairs on said sofa. After much persuasion, I managed to fall asleep briefly.
And that's when I met Charlie Sheen.
There I was in my dream: queueing up in a food court. When it came to my turn guess who was serving me? Charlie-fucking-Sheen, looking 80's young.
And he was telling me to kill.
Cooly and calmly with an edge of menace, a look on his face akin to his cameo in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, he told me to go out and kill. He told me how easy it would be. He told me how to slice people's throats and what knife to use.
Charlie Sheen told me I should kill every last one of you sorry pigfuckers.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
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