We all know that I’m a weird one. But my dreams seriously
take it to a new level of, “um…what the fucking fuck is going on in your head?!?
Stop smiling at me like that, you crazy sociopath, you!”
And it’s not even that the dreams are that fucking weird (well…
they are), or the fact that they in no sense resemble thoughts lingering within
my head the few minutes before I passed out. (Or maybe they do? In that case… I
may need to get some professional help…)
What’s freaky about them are their vivid details leading to
a beginning, middle and end, with a few plot twists scattered around. It’s as if I’m literally writing my
dreams while I sleep, but I know I’m not…I’m too lazy for that shit.
Case in point, let’s dive into my latest dream:
I’m walking into a hospital parking lot. I’m frantically
crying on the phone to my mother, for some reason I’m having a panic attack but
I don’t know why (probably about accidently buying a case of Miracle Whip or
some shit like that). Up ahead I hear a woman screaming, but I’m more invested
in my problems to take notice of this raging lunatic of a woman screaming like
a banshee…. well, I’m not interested until I realize this crazy lady is Beyonce
holding a bloody knife.
“Mom, I’ll call you back.”
At this point Beyonce is being surrounded by like ten men in
white jackets and she is screaming, “It was an accident, I swear to god! I
stabbed him in the knee by accident!”
They don’t seem to believe her.
Miraculously, my panic attack has subsided at this point but
I walk into the hospital anyways.
“Who did Beyonce stab?”
I’m a nosy bitch.
“Jay-Z.” The waiting room says in perfect unison.
“That makes sense.”
“Are you here for the bad left knee seminar?” The lady
behind the desk asks me.
“…Why, yes. Yes I am.”
Side note: I do actually issues with my left knee. It has
dislocated on me too many times to count (which fucking hurts like a bitch,
might I add). I’m supposed to do old lady exercises for it, but I never do,
because they are old lady exercises.
Back to the dream. So I tell the lady I am here for the bad
knee seminar, but only because I want to see how this whole Jay-Z stabbing
thing plays out.
“So is Jay-Z dead?” I ask while nonchalantly perusing a
People magazine.
“Oh, god no,” the nurse behind the desk says. “He got hit in
the back of his knee. He’s in surgery now, so no one is allowed down that
corridor.” She points down a dimly lit hall that smells slightly like Taco
Bell.
I want to go to there.
But so does everyone else. Hundreds of reporters have now
gathered in the waiting room, trying to find the location of Jay-Z.
“He is in surgery! He is not to be disturbed!” I screamed in
my futile attempt to scare off the competition. The nurse behind the desk did
not seem pleased with this outcry.
But then! Five masked assailants burst in. “We will get our
interview! Or everyone will die!”
“Fine!” The nurse screams. “But you can’t go in, it will
have to be her.” She points to me.
“Uh…what do you want to know?” I ask the masked assailants.
“Here.” They hand me a plate of enchiladas. “Ask him if he
likes the beef enchilada or the chicken enchilada better.”
“Uh…okay.”
Needless to say, the plate didn’t make it to the interview.
I walk into the room sans enchiladas, to see Jay-Z and
Beyonce laughing and playing pool.
“Girl get over here.” Beyonce motions to me. “You ate all
the enchiladas didn’t you?”
“…Yes.”
“That’s okay, their enchiladas are shitty. Want a beer?”
“Why, yes. Yes I do.”
And then my alarm went off.
Yeah…I’m going to go see a shrink now.
Wow! You have hella cool dreams!! Did you go to bed hungry or something? That always creates the weirdo dreams for me! :)
ReplyDeleteUgh I fucking hate dreaming about enchiladas. I used to work at a Mexican restaurant and one night I had a dream that I had to make like 500 enchiladas by myself and my boyfriend at the time said that I was shaking my pillow at him and yelling obscenities about enchiladas...in Spanish, no less.
ReplyDeleteyum, enchiladas and beer. I don't see how that's weird.
ReplyDeleteThe fact that you remembered this clusterfuck of actions in such vivid detail impresses me. I would wake up and think of the enchiladas and then the rest would vanish into my unreliable subconscious.
ReplyDeleteI suspect that your knee was hurting while you were sleeping, which was how it figured into the dream. You probably saw, read, or just generally like Miss B and Jay-Z and that brought them in. And at the end, the enchiladas came in because you were hungry. Your stomach was sending messages to your brain for food. And in it came. However, it was all very entertaining. I often remember my dreams vividly, too.
ReplyDelete