The other night I dreamt I had impetigo.

A vivid dream, indeed; it’s just not attractive.

It was odd on a number of accounts. First of all, I’ve never had impetigo, nor have I, for that matter, seen anyone first-hand who did. Secondly, I RARELY remember dreams. The last dream that made any significant impact on me happened during a particularly stressful job hunt eight or so years ago. I dreamt that I worked at McDonald’s. No, this was not a nightmare of some kind; in the dream I was blissfully content at McDonald’s because I knew exactly where all the little food buttons were on the cash register, so I was really, super-duper fast and efficient. I’m not sure what this says about my aspirations in life.

Anyhoooooo, I had impetigo in my dream. I had countless oozing pustules all over my body. In and of itself, it was alarming. But what’s more disquieting is that I was apparently some sort of ersatz nurse in this dream. You’d think that the patients might have found my dripping eruptions worrying, but they were all somewhat comatose (other than the woman who continuously projectile vomited while watching “Blue’s Clues” on a mattress on the floor accompanied by three or four healthcare workers). This was owing to the fact that I, Faux Nurse Pus-Body, evidently, was in charge of giving them all their medications. Mind you, it seems that no one thought it was crucial to inform me of this responsibility, nor did anyone tell me where the meds were, when to dispense them, or how to dispense them. I think the vomiting people hid them from me, actually. The doctors just wandered from patient to patient and were utterly perplexed that no one seemed to be getting any better. It got surreal after that (as thought the previous events were somehow commonplace?). Suddenly, I was driving in a wacky car really fast and there was BLOOD on the road and it was DARK AND FORBODING and then I woke up.