Floofidel (floofinition) – One who is not an animal or who opposes animals or animal rights.

In use: “Many floofidels believe animals are soulless, that they don’t feel emotions, or, because they’re not ‘man’, or human, do not deserve the same rights as humans. Fortunately, the ranks of floofidels are shrinking. Yet, the smart floof should be aware that they’re still out there.” From Training A Human, A Guide for Young Floofs

The Joseph Cotten Dream

Yes, it was another military dream, this one featuring a chief master sergeant (E9) named Cotten who looked just like the late actor, Joseph Cotten.

It started with recovery from military action where several of my people had been killed. I was angry about it because I felt that a planning fuckup was to blame. We were in retreat and recovery mode, filling up a large hangar at night. As people sat in folding mental chairs, some young officer came in shouting about it being fine, not to worry, everything went well. His announcement infuriated me. I snapped, “It’s not fucking fine, sir, it’s not fine when some of my people are dead.”

He responded by circling around me, pointing a finger and demanding to know what I said as everyone else stopped to watch and listen. I repeated it all. Still walking and pointing a finger at me, he warned, “You better check your attitude, the general won’t like that.”

I replied, “I don’t give a shit what the general likes, sir.”

Chief Cotten came over to calm me and the rest down. Yeah, soothing words and a smarmy attitude were employed, which I wasn’t in the mood to swallow. He suggested we have a cuppa coffee and a chat, verifying my name, then trying to flatter me into being more reasonable, telling me, “I’ve heard of you, you have a big rep. Everyone is expecting a lot from you.” I walked away from him, pissing him off, but I was beyond caring.

In a dream shift, I was sitting at a table when several young officers came in, offering me burgers. The burgers were leftovers from somewhere, but they thought I probably hadn’t eaten and would like them. I was pleased and grateful they thought of me and ate the big ol’ burgers with a grin, enjoying every bite.

Another dream shift found us preparing for an exercise. I was late in arriving but queued up in the long, single-file line. Chief Cotten joined me, asking me how I was doing, giving me a cuppa coffee to drink while I waited my turn. Like everyone else, I was in my woodland camoes, but I realize everyone else seemed to have mobility bags and helmets. I had neither. Getting rid of the coffee and leaving the line, I went around asking questions about what was going on and why I wasn’t given a mob bag. No one could answer but another senior NCO suggested that I just take what I needed.

Still cranky, I found a mob bag but when I opened it, there was a thin pink bedspread inside, like the one that used to be on my mother’s guest bed. What the fuck, I thought, which was where the dream ended.

Sunday’s Theme Music

4/3/2022, A Sunday, with a lazy, milquetoast sun, and a low energy motor. April’s first Sunday is gonna be mellow, it proclaims. Were this a thriller or murder mystery, or a disaster film, something would happen to shake the calm and enliven the day with screams. So far, nothing — but it’s early.

Not that I want it. I have coffee. Would prefer to just motor on in a quiet way.

Temperature is a chilly 42, and yes, others say, I’ll take that, because they’re freezing their butts off or dealing with snow. I hear you, and I understand. Supposed to reach 62 F here. The sun wandered in at 6:50 AM, scratching itself, mumbling “Whatssup,” through a yawn. It’ll wander back away at 7:39 PM. The clouds, like the sun and me, seem to lack the energy to be more than a white wisp of stretched thought, the kind of thinking when you say, “I’m hungry,” and someone else asks you, “What do you want to eat,” and you answer, “I don’t know.”

The neurons continue messing with my head. I don’t know what I’ve ever done to them but they’re a bit cranky, energetic and lazy at the same time, like sullen teenagers feeling their hormones and wandering what to do with them. First the neurons pushed Olivia Newton John music on me — “Have you never been mellow” — followed by Melanie singing, “Look what they’ve done to my song, ma,” followed by the German version that was a larger hit. I mumbled something about needing change, fast. The neurons responded with impressive speed, playing the Ramones, “Do You Remember Rock ‘n’ Roll Radio?” from 1980. It’s not speeding around and around the morning mental music stream like race cars at the Indy 500.

Got my coffee, yeah. Stay positive, test negative, and so on. Reading a novel where their future mentions in passing, COVID-19, COVID-23, and COVID-27. It’s a startling thing to do in passing.

Here’s the music. Cheers

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