of Rabbit Holes

October 25, 2011

You put that nasty butter salt on the popcorn??...shhh...it's starting

Do you remember that time you thought I might care to hear about the dream you had the night before?
Yea. I’m having none of it.
Obviously dreams are an extention of our consciousness. Just as obviously, they only make sense to those that have them.
What makes perfect sense to you, is much like a rabbit hole to whoever you are trying to detail it to. Trust me.
“So then..then I was like walking around and Billy pops out of a meatloaf and wants to use my metal leg as a gearshift for her sewing machine…”
Who the fuck is Billy?
And so on…
Now though. I dream.
I didn’t used to. Or at least, remember any. Occasionally, I might wake suddenly from one horrible enough to pull me from a deep slumber and even those, I’d not recall in the morning.
That was before I caught allergies.
I shit you not, in the last several years, either because of the mild allergy medicine I take or because of the pressure on some portion of some lobe, from my sinuses, I dream like crazy. Vivid, close to the surface dreams. Tangible, almost. To the point where I can actually recall thinking to myself…in my dream.
Just last night, Petey, having just left Office as New Jersey Governor and was celebrating now being the “ex Governor” but still keeping the title…I recall thinking to myself, in the dream, “man, that fucker can do anything!!” but then my phone rang and Joelle insisted on describing her husbands (routine) colonoscopy to me. Seriously??
I’d almost rather have someone else tell me their dreams than have to recall my own now.
I hate it. No fucking dream journal for me.
I wanna go back to sleeping and remembering nothing.
What little attention I’ve given to analyses clearly shows a pattern. That I only dream of those I need recall, not those I have any day to day with.
In other words, two of my Ex’s haunt me like ghosts, except not as ethereal, but in my face, “I thought I was rid of you when I set you ass on the curb” payback.
Fuck me running.
Karma? Purgatory, more like.
There is some consolation though. Occasionally, my beloved Nana stops by. Sometimes even around dinnertime and I get to relive her unbelievable chicken and rice. Even that though, I’d forgo, if it meant I needn’t keep driving that damn yellow school bus (empty) over the barrier on the bridge….again and again. The sneezing and congestion is bad enough… must I saddle up for the only six hours I used to count on without you?

No…you still can’t tell me yours. I have enough on my hands.

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