What sushi dreams...

Ichiban Japanese Cuisine & Sushi Bar was the dinner destination last night, since K & I were both craving sushi for dinner.  They'll be seeing us often - not only was Caro, our waitress very nice, and not only did we end up in the tatami room (okay, the three year old on the other side of the partition was a nuisance, but that was the only downside), after eating plenty of food, and enjoying a large hot sake each, our bill was a lot less than I was expecting.

Plus, and this is a huge factor in their favor, unlike just about every sushi joint in NOLA, they had toro (fatty tuna). . . and they get fresh whole fish in on Fridays, so that was our dessert.  We had gone without for 20 months (since K's brother got married), and, goddamn, it's still delicious.

But, as always, a big sushi dinner makes the nocturnal intra-cranial wanderings veer well into "Dude, that's fucked up" territory.  How weird did it get?

Doing drive-by political opinion polls of neighbors of people we were driving to visit before parking Zim in our hostess' living room and criticizing her for having "the same fucking awful popcorn ceiling I've got"?

Walking around my parent's neighborhood with K, being assaulted by a 300 lb chestnut German Shepherd, which then attacked K and swallowed her whole head? (This was very upsetting, and I managed to thrash myself awake trying to beat the dog off and shoot its owner.)

No, the capper was K & I being in a slash-fic *casts a pointed glance at ldybastet*

Not just -any- slash, mind you, but the mother of all slash. . . Kirk/Spock slash.  I was Kirk.  I was, ostensibly, the D partner.  And yet I was still the one with the dildo up my ass in a cave.

Waking up with the ghost of a vulcan dildo in one's ass is a mighty weird experience, let me tell you.