I dreamed I went into a small office where a woman who looked like Doris Day wearing white Naturalizers sat me in a reclining chair and swabbed my face with alcohol. Then a tall man who looked like Humphrey Bogart in Sansabelt slacks stuck a needle in my eye and sliced my stye with a scalpel. Next, both the man and the woman took turns digging at the wound with Q-tips the size of broccoli. Finally, the man cauterized the area with something that looked like one of those tools used to burn names into the wooden plaques they sell in Gatlinburg. It smelled like when we used to put our Barbies' heads in the charcoal grill.
But I wasn't asleep.
I couldn't even close my eyes.