When I quit smoking, I had a nicotine patch on 24/7. I know, but I was *really* addicted. It gave me the most intense and vivid dreams of my life.
The one I remember most clearly is that I was the female equivalent of Henry VIII, except I killed my husbands. Not executed, I actually killed them. It was pretty graphic, with one of my ladies-in-waiting shaking bone shards out of the sheets. Anyway, I was scheduled to be executed like Marie-Antoinette in the morning. Because I was royalty, I was offered a final request, like a last meal or confession.
I requested a priest. But, not for confession... I requested a priest to make love to on my last night of life. When he arrived, it was Christian Slater. From Heathers
It. Was. Awesome.
I woke up in the morning (in the dream) in a London train station bathroom in modern clothing with only a backpack and a sword. Christian Slater had become David Krumholtz (he helped me escape) and I then realised I had to be at work the next day and had no idea how I was going to get back to Australia.
And then there was the dream about Det. Olivia Benson in the freezer last week. That one had me feeling weird all day.