No, it wasn’t about Cyberland. I still, sadly, haven’t joined the cast of RENT. And while I know it is the most boring thing ever to hear about other people’s dreams, we’ve got to talk about this one. I promise it involves no pudding-filled volcanoes or half-human-half-hedgehog creatures. I dreamed about a guy.
Cue the scandalized gasps. No worries, it wasn’t a dream filled with le sexytimes. It was a rather pedestrian reenactment of the train scene from North & South (the BBC version, not the Patrick Swayze Civil War sweat-fest), the two main characters rather conveniently portrayed by myself and this guy. No big deal, right? The subconscious is a wild and wonderful place. I am not one of those people who believes in the meaning of dreams. If I dream about fairies, it’s because I recently spent too much time with a six year old, not that I’m in search of advice. However, this dream shook me up. Why? Well, it’s the dozenth time my subconscious has summoned this guy in a matter of weeks. He won’t leave me alone! It’s like I have some sort of dream stalker.
Worse, this isn’t some random acquaintance. This is a guy I may-or-may-not have had a giant thing for, resulting in rabid bouts of brownie baking. You know how, sometimes, you meet a person who seems totally perfect for you and whom you could actually see yourself seriously dating, but nothing ever moves forward and so you kind of start to hate them instead? Yeah, that’s how I feel about this guy. I want to shake him in a very violent manner and insist that he see the error of his lackadaisical relationship ways, but then tell him it’s too late, because I’m running off to England to marry a duke. Since titled aristocrats vying for my love are rather thin on the ground, I’ve instead put on my boots made for walking and gotten over it. Except, apparently, in the whacked-out depths of my mind.
My subconscious is determined to torture me. It has been too long since I had a lovely make-out session (months, if you must know), but it doesn’t feel like it, because my imagination is terrifyingly vivid. I blame my writer’s brain. I spent the formative years of my youth playing out entire dialogues and situations in my mind, in excruciating detail, when I should have been studying for AP Calculus. I’m entirely too good at inventing romantic scenes. This guy has, alternately: saved me from a sinking ship, been thought lost for dead in a tornado only to be discovered, joyfully, alive under rubble, and declared his undying love for me in any manner of embarrassing and humbling ways.
How am I supposed to ignore my previous interest in someone, when my dreams are filled with said person doing improbably attractive things? I will rarely need to be saved from a sinking ship, as I am a very strong swimmer, but nonetheless Dream Grace thought it was super foxy of him to offer. Personally, I wish Dream Grace would focus on someone else. I hear Ryan Gosling is open for fantasy cameos right now. Why can’t I get my REM sleep with a side of Hey Girl, instead of ridiculous encounters with Thor the Annoying? He doesn’t deserve my dream time, being entirely too concerned with smoking pot rather than seducing blonde med students.
Who needs that? Not me. Get the message, subconscious! There are plenty of perfectly awesome guys to dream about, so there’s no need to focus on that one in particular. You’re just making it harder on everyone. It’s rather difficult to roll your eye’s at someone’s antics, when last night he helped you escape the Hindenburg. Trust me, that’s never going to happen. Not only is this not 1937 on a German airship, but if it were, he’d blithely let me go up in hydrogen-fueled flames, pausing only long enough to use the fire to light his bowl. Next time, go with Gosling. I’m sure he would know what to do, if say, we hit an iceberg on an Edwardian cruise ship.
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