Apparently, I'm Also Pathetic and Boring

Last night I had a dream. I have them often and, more often than not, when I awake, I remember them. Sometimes it's the whole dream, so vivid and fresh in my mind that I wonder if it wasn't, actually, real. Other times it's a snippet or moment from the dream and sometimes it's nothing more than a hazy memory, like I'd been out drinking the night before and I have a vague recollection of doing something stupid.

Dreams are often a window into the deepest, darkest recesses in our minds.  They are a form of release, a form of suppression, a means of therapy for a mind that is not working properly.  Other times, they're our central computer telling us what we should do, what we want to do and what we cannot do, no matter how badly we want it.  In our dreams, we do things good, and bad, with no repercussion.  We can kill, we can screw around, we can hit the winning basket, be millionaires, paupers and sex addicts.  We are supermen in our dreams.  We are zombies in our dreams.  We are anything our minds can conjure.  My mind, being somewhat twisted, very much over used and under utilized, has come up with all kinds of mental movies.

Last night's dream was the worst I've ever had.



I've had dreams that resulted in sleep walking.  I've woken up screaming bloody murder.  I've woken up hot and sweaty, legs aching from some dream marathon.  I have been startled awake from falling and I've woken up covered in my own man juice.  I've seen it all in my dreams and my mind is probably the only theater that continues to pump out amazing, interesting and exciting fare.

Until last night.

Last night I dreamt I was leaving a week long ski trip with some friends.  I stopped by the front desk of the hotel we stayed at to, presumably, pay my bill, and the owner, an old ski area type woman, greeted me and had me sign my credit card bill, paying my charges.  Then, her dog, a large white poodle, bit me in the ass.  It chomped down, not hard enough to actually cause real pain, not soft enough to imply that the dog was playing with me.  Just held my right butt cheek between that white fur covered jaw, and refused to let go.

I begged and pleaded with the dog to no avail.  I asked the woman to get her dog off me and she wouldn't.  Or couldn't.  That was it.  My entire dream.  Me with a dog hanging off my ass.  It was so boring that, when I awoke, I was miserable with myself.

My subconscious has given up on me.  It has, for the first time in 41 years, produced garbage.  What's next?  Getting a hard on when I'm told there will be pudding for dessert? 

I need to find a way to get my mind back.  Something to spark the fire of insanity, fuel the wandering creativity that burned so bright inside my skull.