I tend to have really strange dreams. I know everyone thinks their dreams are weird, but mine really take the cake. They are vivid, they feel incredibly real, and they make absolutely no sense.
For example, the dream I had last night:
I was in a classroom (one of the ones at work, I think). It was supposed to be a kinesiology class, but our teacher—who just happened to be the dance instructor I studied with when I first moved here—had a special surprise for us. Instead of doing anything remotely fitness related, we were going to play one of those karaoke video games. The first student to start singing is Onça O’Leary, an amazing performer with whom I once took a burlesque/belly dance fusion workshop. And sitting in the desk next to mine is a guy with whom I went to high school and on whom I had a stupidly huge crush. He looked exactly like he did our senior year, not like he looks now (not that he’d not attractive now; he’s just a little too built for my taste). I keep moving around the room from one desk to another, and he keeps following me. Eventually we get to talking and things start taking a bit of a turn toward the naughty. So we go out into the hallway—and he starts witnessing to me.
Before I can even put together the words, “What the fuck?” he saunters triumphantly down the hall. I shake my head and go back into the classroom to sit next to Onça, who gives me a red shawl for no reason whatsoever.
See what I mean?
It’s like this just about every night. Remember when I said I was dreaming about my ex? The last one of those took place in a cabin built in a tree, and the stone floor kept crumbling out from under our feet. And last night was not the first time I’ve dreamt of said high school crush, though he usually makes his appearances in the classic “I’m still in school and I have a final for a class I forgot I was taking and haven’t been to in months” dreams. I’ve had your typical “my teeth are falling out” dreams, and some not-so-typical ones like the time I dreamt there were flying rainbow lizards attacking me in my bed. I still remember my recurring nightmare from my childhood (which involved a very short witch chasing me around my house, and the clown from It sitting up in the tree in my front yard) as well as the recurring nightmare from when I was in therapy (which involved me riding a bike and being chased by giant dogs which eventually cornered me against a fence and turned into chihuahuas).
But one of my favorites is from when I first started getting my allergy shots:
I’m sitting in the waiting room after getting all four of my shots (because I am allergic to the entire world), waiting the obligatory 30 minutes so they can make sure I won’t explode or die or something. Finally the nurse calls me back to check my arms, and she takes one look at me and starts freaking out. I look at my right arm and start freaking out myself, because my entire arm is solid black. After a few moments of said freak-out, the nurse finally comes to the usual solution at my allergist’s office: she says, “Let’s put some cream on it.” She squirts the antihistamine cream on a cotton ball and starts rubbing it all over my arm. And the black just wipes right off, revealing my freckly porcelain complexion beneath it. At this point I suddenly remember why my arm is black: I was printing sheet musing earlier, taking the pages straight from the printer and rubbing the still wet ink all over my arm.
I really should start keeping a dream journal, because they just keep getting weirder and weirder. I am convinced that my brain is either purposefully trying to mess with me or it’s on crack. Or that my overactive writer’s imagination won’t shut up even when I’m asleep. But unless it’s trying to tell me to be some sort of Kafka-ian surrealist, I don’t see how any of this is going to be useful…