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Wickensworth

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I’m just like, “What the hell kind of dream was that? Am I really stupid enough to have thought of that?” My dreams make David Lynch’s movies seem like an abridged version of Dick and Jane, and I can never figure out what the hell is going on in them. It’s frustrating, because there I am trying to get a decent night’s sleep, and all of a sudden I start seeing insane images of people I know occupying bizarre, surreal settings, and everyone’s talking in retarded riddles. “Go not to the cave, Eric! Heed the words that were written in stone!” In the dream, these things all make sense to me, but then when I wake up, I’m confused as hell. It’s like, wait a minute, wasn’t I flying around in a police car with TV’s ALF? Then how the hell did I end up in what appeared to be a castle/factory hybrid looking for stolen jewels? And why do I always get violently murdered at the end of my dreams by a darker, twisted version of myself, only to wake up in a cold sweat with a pounding headache?

You know, dreams wouldn’t be so bad if you got to choose what you dreamt about, but you really don’t. It’s not like I’m laying down on the bed before I go to sleep and thinking, “OK, tonight I’m going to dream about bowling with a talking metal penguin and my 8th grade algebra teacher, only instead of using bowling balls, we use dictionaries. Oh, and we’re in outer space.” Yet, sure enough, there’s the talking metallic penguin and Mrs. Miller, and we’re bowling with dictionaries in outer space. Call me crazy, but I think that I should have control over my subconscious.

Also, I demand to know who came up with dreams in the first place. I want to know who said, “Alright, let’s have the subconscious take a bunch of fragmented ideas, choppily edit them together, toss in some random characters from one’s past, and then let people watch that while they’re sleeping.” I mean, it’s not like dreams mean anything. A lot of people like to sit there saying, “OK, let’s see, the Jello represented my struggle battling adversity, while the cast of UPN’s Moesha was a metaphor for–” No, I’m sorry, there’s no meaning to any of that nonsense. And if there is meaning to it, it must be some kind of dumb, ridiculous meaning that doesn’t make any sense. To be perfectly frank, I don’t have time for that.

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