Why being sick and watching Control don't mix.

I caught Mateo's cold, so I've been downing NyQuil at night to help me sleep. This past weekend, since my husband was home Friday, we actually managed to watch a movie - Control - which is about Ian Curtis, the lead singer of Joy Division and how he killed himself when he was a wee 23 years old, married (although cheating on his wife) and had a daughter (who never knew him, sadly).

I really hate movies like this. But "hate" in the way one would "hate" cake because it makes them fat but still eats it cause he/she really loves the cake. The director of the movie is one of my most favorite contemporary photographers of all time, Anton Corbijn, because he some how manages to layer such visual intensity to moods unlike any other black and white (or color) photographer I've seen. Simply put, he rocks.

So not only is the story a sad one, even if you don't care of Joy Division or don't know who the heck Joy Division is (and if that's the case, shame on you and go buy yourself a CD), but the way it was filmed adds way more sadness to the story.

Anyway, that was my mini review of the movie, I guess. What I really wanted to write about is how NyQuil and Control don't mix.

Being someone who has had a tragic suicide affect someone she loves, and a suicide wrapped in somewhat similar circumstances, it was hard watching this movie with my husband (okay, the someone is my husband). He's not an emotional person, but when he is, things like this movie will spark it. He's lost many people close to him, and it goes without saying that this type of movie will make him sad.

So what do I do? Before going to bed, I took NyQuil. I passed out. I dreamt. What did I dream about? My husband killing himself. Of course I did.

At some point he was in jail, so I think he ended up killing someone else too. You know how dreams go.

All I remember about the suicide part was saying over and over again, "I told him if he ever felt like doing this, he needed to tell me, why didn't he tell me???" which is something I did tell him after his friend killed himself.

And the most I remember about the jail part was me and someone else waiting where the prisoners are sent for visits (which was outside, in the open, without fences - and this goes to show how much I know about prisons), and my husband never coming. Then we realized we were supposed to tell someone we were there to see him.

Last night I had a dream that the hood of a new car I bought started falling apart the day after I bought it and then a giant hippo walked over the hood, denting the hood.

Dreams, needless to say, are fun. Especially mixed with NyQuil.