I have a certain knack for remembering almost every one of my dreams. I don't know if I would necessarily constitute this as a talent per se, but a "knack?" Yes. I generally refer to knacks as weird things anyway, like knick-knacks. WTF? You know you have at least one family member or friend who has knick-knacks all over their house. Maybe they're miniature tea sets? Or porcelain plates lining the ceiling? Or better yet... porcelain cats alllllllll over the place. I love me a good cat picture every now and then, but come on people, pull yourselves together! There I go on my tangents again...
So this knack of mine. I consider myself a human dream catcher (and maybe possibly have a mild obsession with Native American dream catchers... yet I don't actually have one... yet). Every day I consider the ramifications of taking a Mental Health Day from work and driving to the Four Corners to pick one up from a street (desert?) vendor. To date, I have yet to come up with a reason why I shouldn't go. Any takers? ...didn't think so. Anyway, I've been experiencing a plethora of bad dreams throughout the past few months and am not sure why. For example, I experience at least 2 kidnappings and/or psycho killer stalkers on a weekly basis. Despite my intense hatred for these dreams, I still think I'm lucky whenever my brother tells me about his dreams... lucky that I don't dream his dreams. For the love of Gawd, the man experiences Steven King + Bret Easton Ellis + Herman Munster + Sinbad x 50 in some of those things. And belize me, I don't want to have anything to do with any of that. Well, maybe except for Herman. He's so lovable.
My latest nightmizare looked like this: I was the ball girl or towel girl--or something degrading me to wearing short shorts and a tight tank top (to show off my fake boobies... what? I know, right?) and white dance team sneakers--for a pro football team. I blame listening to the Jets/Steelers (go Jets, ew Steelers) game on the radio during my FIVE hour drive home last Sunday for that little detail. Naturally I was the "guys' girl" friend with the boiz on the team and found myself folding towels or shorts or something down in the locker room with my buddy who was on the defensive line. My buddy just so happened to be Faizon Love. <--again, wtf I know. Well, Faiz started professing his undying love for me, then gave me some major googly eyes that insinuated one thing: assault. Aw haaeeeelllll no this was not happening again in my dream. And so the chase ensued... I bolted for the door, slow motion of course (WHY does it have to be slo-mo every single time?), and ran up an outdoor flight of stairs to a bar/movie theatre/lecture hall. ??????
I snuck in (I blame reading Water for Elephants on this) without paying my $12 admission and sunk down into a seat I was sure would hide me. Luckily, one of my coworkers was in the seat across the aisle from me and a pillow from my parents' couch in Nebraska magically appeared to better aide in my hiding efforts. BUT (so starts the Jaws theme song) next thing I know, Faiz comes tearing through the dark theatre in hot pursuit of... me. I hold up the pillow, but to no avail; he spots me, takes note, then leaves. Phew. Each time I looked over my shoulder, he was pacing back and forth in front of the glass doors, his panther eyes locked on me. Thankfully I woke up at that moment, sweating like a moose and cradling a knot in my stomach. And who did I have to comfort me? George. But not George's glorious purring face that he uses to wake me up with at least 14 times a night. He was positioned such that his smelly little booty was propped up on my shoulder. The little bastard. This has been happening more times than not and then again last night being woken up for the second night in a row by George's backside put me in a foul mood. Looks like the little guy and I need to have a serious Come To Jesus tonight.
I should probably give G a little more credit now that I think of it. At least he was there for me, lending what he feels is his best asset for the sake of my comfort. It's impossible not to appreciate his effort. Sweet little guy.
No comments:
Post a Comment