Slothly Dreams

Had I invested a thousand dollars in umbrellas last Monday, I'd be a millionaire today--I've been a bit under the weather, that is. Damn ulcers again. I had them a couple of years ago, and now they're back. I'm not sure if it's a matter of H. pylori or H. diet (with the aitches standing for helicobacter and horrible respectively), but it's bloody uncomfortable. There's a constant gnawing feeling under my ribcage, punctuated by occasional stabs, and a coppery taste in my mouth. If I have some food, it goes away for a while, then comes back later as heartburn. I stay up all night drinking water to cool the fire, passing the time with work and ADOM.

To make matters worse, a friend of mine dropped by with one of those lovely summer colds. I don't usually catch 'em, but I got this one. Sneezing, let me tell you, does not go well with ulcers. This was my Wednesday:

"ATCHOOOOOOO! ...groan...shut up, Stella."

"Skeeeek!"

(silence)

"ATCHOO! ATCHOO! ATCHOO! ...auuuuuuugh...shut UP, Stella."

"SKEEEEEEK!"

(silence)

"ATCHOO!"

"Skee!"

"...groan...sigh...."

"Meep?"

"SHUT UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUP!"

"grrrgle skeek prrrrr."

"Come on. I'm trying to work, here."

"nrr"

"You've always got to have the last word, don't you?"

"peep"

(flipping her the British workers' salute)

"SKEEEEEEEEK!"

Stella wasn't much on the whole sneezing bit, either, see. The more settled in she gets, the more used to me, sort of thing, the more vocal she becomes. If I'm too noisy, she scolds me. If I eat without her, even boring food she doesn't want, she frets at me. If I try to get some sleep, she whimpers for attention. And when all's well with the world, she sings and chortles with glee. That rat needs an off switch--these skeeks and burbles are nothing like the modest thwipplings of a finch or a parakeet. They range from the soft end of piercing to the unbelievable end of ear-splitting. (And all this from a critter no bigger than a kitten.)

Speaking of Stella, she's developed another less-than-endearing habit this week. It does have its amusing side, but it's also got an absolutely disgusting side to it, so it must be nipped in the bud. She's been--oh, man, this is horrible!--she's been peeing all over bits of newspaper, then bringing them out of her cage and putting them on my feet. I have watched her quite deliberately crouch over a pile of paper shreds, then turn round and pick one up delicately by a non-pissed corner. Manky animal! Manky, evil creature! Maybe she's trying to tell me that her cage doesn't need to be cleaned, since she is removing the peed-on bedding herself? Nah, she's not that bright. I'm putting my money on spite.

What I need in here is a very small sloth with no claws. Sloths are quiet and unassuming, and sleep twenty hours out of each twenty-four. Sloths probably think the dreamworld is the real world, since they spend so much time there. If a sloth tries to bite you, all you have to do is shove over a little--by the time the lazy dosser catches up with you, it'll have forgotten why it was chasing you in the first place. A sloth won't eat your blinds or infest your kitchen cabinets. A sloth won't squeal in your ear all night. (I'm not sure they make any sound at all, in fact--have they even got voiceboxes?) A sloth won't stick its tail in your mouth, because, as far as I know, it hasn't got one.

All right, I admit it--I know next to nothing about sloths. The sum of my concrete knowledge is that they're lazy wee sods with horrible claws. I also believe, but wouldn't affirm, that when they're not snoozing, they're running around the forest floor looking for places to shite. Occasionally, when they haven't got anything better to do with their time, they disembowel someone with their claws. And that's about it for me and sloths.

I think about them sometimes, though. I wouldn't mind being a sloth, hanging upside-down from a liana vine, having green dreams. Sun dappling through the...the, wossname, roof of the world? Leaf umbrella? You know, when you've got loads and loads of trees, and their leaves and branches all tangle together to make a brolly type of thing? Anyway, the sun'd come dappling through that, warming me in my slovenly sleep. Dust-motes would catch the light above and below and around me. It would be like sleeping in a hammock surrounded by tiny, glistening midges. Once in a while, a fat beetle or grub would fall from on high, plop on my belly, and rustle its way through my pelt. Fruit bats would shit seeds on my head, and I would neither notice nor care. I would stay still for so long that some of the seeds would grow, and I'd have a twist of ficus or ivy on my head. In my dreams, I'd climb to the very top of the forest, to the highest branches of the tallest tree, and shove my snout through into the world's freshest air. It would be an epic expedition, like climbing Mount Everest. I'd meet all sorts of rats and goblins and stag beetles along the way.

As I dreamed, the ivy on my head would overgrow my shoulders, and put out feelers to the branches all around me. A year would pass, a season of sap and creepers, and I'd be covered in plants. Roots would stop up my ears and nose, and extravagant blossoms would drip honey in my mouth so I wouldn't have to move to feed myself. In my dreams, I'd aspire to even greater heights, and fly high above the leaf umbrella on an airship made of vines and dumb-cane. I'd explore a floating city held aloft by massive organ pipes which blew music through the sky.

A hundred years would pass, and I'd still be there, nestled in a vast ivy cradle, which had suspended itself across a dozen trees. The wind would rock me back and forth, and my dreams would turn to the sea. There would be pointy-hat pirates and islands with buried treasure, and beaches strewn with funny-looking shells. I'd be a slothly sea-captain, at the prow of a ship propelled by live fish strapped to the hull. I would discover Atlantis. Navigating the submerged streets by the light of a deep-sea anglerfish, I'd poke my head in the windows of tomb after tomb, reflecting upon how these graves had once been houses. I'd imagine I could see skeletons reaching for me, but it'd really just be seaweed. All the skeletons would've been eaten away by the fish and the salt water centuries ago. Packs of aquatic rats would swim all around me, rubbing their greasy faces on my feet and tickling me with their whiskers.

In the forest, the old trees would die, and new ones would poke up to support my ivied bed. I would die too, and I wouldn't even notice. My bones, shrouded in their leafy bag, would dream on forever. They would have lots of interesting adventures. During these adventures, I would never, ever, catch a cold or get an ulcer. The occasional giant rat marauder might anoint my calcaneus bone with piss, but these things don't matter when you're a skeleton. In my dying dream, it would simply rain a little. I would put up my hands to catch the drops.

(Yeah, this is what I think about all day, as I work on my latest illustrations. Profound, eh? Fair put Aristotle to shame, I do. Ha, ha.)

Speaking of which...what the hell? Why am I writing this nonsense down when I ought to be working? Back to the salt mines with me.