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.