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Mommy, I had a bad dream ...................Paul Ryan
Surprisingly, saying this little phrase worked. I still didn't like remembering my dreams, though. They were all really stupid and made no sense. Since life itself is really stupid and makes no sense, I figured I didn't need an extra dose of it while sleeping. Nowadays, I only remember my dreams twice or three times a year. Sunday night was one of those times, and man was this dream ever weird. In the dream, I was a reporter (see what I said about dreams being stupid? Instead of dreaming about naked women or being James Bond, I'm dreaming about my normal day job), and I was at a party interviewing some girls. Apparently, I was doing an in-depth profile, following these girls through their daily college lives. Anyway, after finishing my interview, I walked into the kitchen of this party house and started bragging to some guy about being a reporter (yet another example of stupidity in dreams). As it turns out, the guy I was bragging to lived in the house, and thought I was writing a story about his party to send to the cops. I tried to explain that I wasn't writing about his party, but he wouldn't listen. Instead of listening, he threw me down two flights of stairs into the basement. Then he tore the two pages of interview notes from my reporter's notebook, crumpled them up, and threw them on the floor. I'm not sure why he tore the pages from my notebook instead of just taking the whole notebook, or why he left them right in front of me on the floor, or why I didn't just pick them up. But this was a really stupid dream, so I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. Either way, the version of me in the dream was absolutely devastated. I had lost my entire interview (only two little reporter's notebook pages? Wow. It must have been a really crappy article), and I was obviously too lazy or stupid to pick it up. So I walked outside, where I found a bunch of people walking down the street. It was almost like a parade, except dumber, because there was nothing remotely entertaining about it. We were all just walking. It was now daytime as well, which was also weird. As I was walking, the kid who threw me down the stairs ran up to me along with his roommate. They beat me to a bloody pulp. After several minutes of savage beatings from them, I managed to escape. Once I was alone, I realized I was in my old neighborhood in Richfield, MN, the town where I grew up. I knew I was badly injured, and was anxious to get home and see if my face was messed up (no, really! I was "anxious". Weird stuff). Once I got to my parents' house, I realized I had lots and lots of bandages wrapped around my head, like a mummy in a bad horror flick. I'm not sure how that happened, but at this point, who am I to argue? Right as I was about to walk in front of the mirror, the doorbell rang. I answered the door, only to find the guys who beat me up standing there, with some other guys standing in a group away from the door. Apparently, their school had gotten hold of my interview notes, and now both of them were in trouble for beating me up for no reason. This also makes no sense, but once again, I'm not one to argue. They said, "Hey, sorry for beating you up, man." I said, "Hey, that's okay. It's cool." The roommate said that as punishment, he was now required to take nothing but classes about Jesus. I laughed at him. Then I closed the door, walked back towards the mirror, and woke up right before standing in front of it. What does this all mean? Absolutely nothing. But the idea of colleges punishing people by making them take classes about Jesus is zany. Perhaps this is the way for churches to get religion back in schools. Hey, that's a great idea. Maybe dreams do have a purpose. I'm a genius!
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I almost never remember my dreams. I'm just one of those people who never dreams about anything, or perhaps I just don't remember what I dream about. Either way, I'd prefer not to remember them. In my psychology class in high school, we had to keep track of our dreams in a "dream journal". In order to remember our dreams, we were told to repeat the phrase "I will remember my dreams" 20 times before going to bed. It was like a satanic cult, except without the Jonestown Kool-Aid.
