Visions of Sugar Plums

Hello, Dear Readers.
When last I wrote, I left off with a report of impending sleep. To wit, a reportage of the strange netherworld, the domain of Hypnos and his son, Morpheus--the Gods of Sleep and Dreams.
My usual nighttime preoccupation with sweets, savouries, succulent victuals, and agreeable aliments was not to pass this night! But rather, I was transported to a nightmare dystopic realm; a frenzied personal vision of my own eventual demise. No, Dear Reader, not at the hands of some malicious villain, dark and mustachioed, but at the hands of a murderer most nefarious and insidious: high blood pressure; heart disease; other assorted ailments all too commonly seen in the gourmand!
My visions, friends, stood so vividly before me that even my dream-self shrank in horror of what might one day befall me. To begin, chest pains constricted my heart and my throat in a manner most vile! I found myself standing, near prone, in a grimly lighted cave (or, at least it appeared so!), all hued in reds and brownsmost unnerving. The faint flicker and crackle of torchlight and a musty breeze was apparent, even in my panick'd condition, and as I clutched my throat, hoping for a reprieve, the foulest odor I'd yet smelled in my life emanated from somewhere unknown. Spoiled food! Excreta! Malodorous sweat! Sulphur! As you can no doubt imagine, my panic only increased.
With this, my visions grew ever more intense. Skin disease! Shingles! Itchy scalp! But no, friends, it grew only worse. The twin malefactors of Diabetes and Colon Cancer made their appearance in a manner most profligate! They appeared incarnate as two towering, leering wretches, bent on stealing away with first my gimpy feet, followed by amputated lengths of bowel, and finally my very life!
Then the fever dream, rather than dissipating, leaving me awake and jarred past all reason, grew only more vivid. Lucid images were replaced with a roiling, turgid cacophony of carnival flashes and off-key pianola symphonies. Scenes of pure malefic color and emotion exploded before me in a calamitous ruin. So aggrieved did I become that I was left senseless and bedraggled when finally I awoke in an impotent howl.
Debra and Gene certainly took their sweet fucking time in coming to my aid. Were my screams not distressed enough to rouse them from their own reveries? Were they, perhaps, engaged in their own greasy brand of bumping coitus? I am loathe to imagine it, but when their own and only son cries out in the night, afflicted and besot by demons, does it not behoove even the most injurious and neglectful parent to spring to swift action?
Alas, this was not the case. Despite the genesis of my night terrors, Debra and Gene simply entered my chamber with their usual panacea for any disquiet on my part: a lukewarm bottle of equal parts buttermilk and cognac. Despite my protests and attempts at recrimination, the elixir soon had its desired effect. I am only thankful that the sleep engendered by this calmative was a dreamless one.
With this, Dear Reader, I bid you adieu for the moment. Tomorrow I will continue with Dr. Stephy's suggestion of my food diary. Perhaps, however, there will be an accompanying dream journal as well. Perhaps.