I once had a dream that I was drowning a cat in front of Gugny to prove a point, except that I don’t know Gugny so it was Mr. Met, but not actually Mr. Met, more like a Mr. Met/Ghostbusters sized Stay Puft Marshmallow Man hybrid.
Anyway, because he was so large and the cat was so small, he couldn’t really see it so it really wasn’t making my point so I just let it go. Being that it was a wet cat, it was seriously pissed, and it clawed me all up.
As the cat’s running away Sigourny Weaver shows up, but not the somewhat sexy Ghostbusters version, more like the militant Ripley version from Alien: Resurrection. She gives me a nasty, judgemental look because of all the scratches but proceeds to turn into the Zuul dog-thing from Ghostbusters and starts licking the scratches.
Hear me out, at it’s core it’s Sigourney Weaver and whether it’s sexy Sigourney or Alien: Resurrection Sigourney or the dog-thing from Ghostbusters Sigourney or whatever, I’m thinking when am I going to have this sort of brush with celebrity again, amiright, so, you know, we start going at it. Right before she tries to bite my head off like a preying mantis I wake up in a cold sweat.
The Bills weren’t playing that week, and the Sabres alway lose, so I don’t think it had any sports bearing. If there was any meaning in it, which I tend to doubt, it may have been my subconscious’s way of telling me that I should steer clear of The Old Absinthe House in the Quarter.