**UPDATED** The following is an actual conversation about the events of yesterday:

Gray:  I had nightmares about dog poop and dog vomit. ALL. NIGHT. LONG.

Me:  Dog poop, dog vomit and purple hands? I know. What the hell was up with my purple hand?

Gray:  I don't know, hun. I'm just glad you're okay. But no purple hands, just the poop and puke. Seriously, those dreams were THE WORST.

Me:  Wait, why didn't you dream about purple hands? Does this mean you were more worried about Scary dying from doughnut consumption than you were about me dying from a blood clot?

Gray:  Of course I was more worried about you! I'm worried when you just walk around doing your normal thing. You're dangerous.

Me:  Then why didn't you have nightmares about a purple hand?

Gray:  I don't know.

Me:  Hmmm. What the hell was UP with my purple hand, anyway?

Gray:  Maybe you're turning into a Vikings fan. Most people do it on the inside, but maybe you're doing it on the outside.

Me:  OH DEAR JESUS NOOOOOOOO.

****Turns out Gray's dreams were less the "nightmare about what happened" kind of dreams and more "you better watch out because the REAL shit explosion is yet to come" variety. Last night...FUCK why didn't I take a picture, because HOLY FUCKING CHRIST, ya'll. There was maroon-colored diarrhea on every available bedroom surface ever known to mankind. A wooden dresser was fatally wounded in the blast. Two dogs were vigorously bathed in the aftermath. Gray felt the need to SHOWER after the ordeal.

We didn't know real trauma until last night. Excuse me, I need to go vomit.