sweet dreams

Why dreams are never talked about I'll never understand. Why don't we ask our coworkers in the morning how their dreams were? Whatever happened to people saying 'sweet dreams' at night? Obviously, at some point in history, people acknowledged the importance of dreams. When we encounter someone in the morning who is in a bad mood, we generally just think he or she is a dick, but we rarely think about what could be causing that bad mood. For me, a poor night's sleep gets make me downright angry, and I'll usually carry that anger with me deep into the afternoon. Of course, for me sleep is a very delicate thing; I will sleep terribly for no good reason, which is probably why I get so angry about it. But one thing that is universal that can often times dictate our moods is a dream. We've all had dreams where someone we are close to has died or has done something terrible to us, and we wake up from those dreams either shaken up or convinced our best friend is a bastard.

I had a wonderful morning today. I was singing in the shower and dancing my way up and down the stairs, and I have little to attribute my excitement to other than a dream I dreamt last night. It was short and sweet...

There's a lot about the dream that's fuzzy, and, as we are all well aware of the nature of dreams, if I wasn't writing it all down right now, I would probably forget everything by tomorrow. But I do know that in the dream I wasn't me. I was an older, bigger, stronger, bearded man, and I had a hurt leg; I don't know any background, but I felt stronger, not to mention my hurt leg. I was having an intimate meal with an important man in his home. From what my memory tells me, he was Asian, he was rich, and he was evil. I know he was Asian because we were sitting on the ground at a very low table, and I know he was evil because of what happened next. It must have been something I said that made this evil Asian unhappy because he called in one of his henchman, who was also Asian. He wore a black suit and had a gun, which he proceeded to point at me. I immediately jumped into a hallway to escape, and it was at this moment that I know part of the dream was me writing it as it was happening, which might explain why I wasn't myself. I remember writing as I laid in the hallway something about how I would have fought the henchman had my leg been strong, but I knew I had to run (this is the last thing I remember writing). As the henchman appeared from around the corner I forward-rolled (is there any other way?) into a nearby bathroom and locked the door. The bathroom was small, about five square feet, and the ceiling was about twenty feet high. I knew the only way was up. I began to climb with my arms and legs stretched out against the tile walls. It was surprisingly easy to get to the ceiling, which, when I pushed up against, came off as easily as if it was made of styrofoam (don't ask why I went straight for the ceiling instead of going out the window I clearly remember climbing past). I climbed onto the roof and ran as fast as I could to the front of the house, where my car was parked along the street (which was, of course, my Accord). Somehow the two Asians appeared on the roof behind me and gave chase. All of a sudden, I had a back-pack strapped on, which I trusted to act as a mini parachute as I launched myself off of the roof; and it worked! I floated through the air, over the front yard and landed right next to my car on the street. It was here that I woke up.

I tried every sleep trick I knew to get back into the dream. But alas, I found myself in a dream reunited with old friends, which was fine, but C'mon!! It wasn't frustration, however, that I felt in the morning. The dream was so much fun that I became the most optimistic version of me I've ever been. I worked harder; I laughed louder; I felt like I had accomplished something. And I had. Because I know deep down in my heart that those damn Asians would have never caught me.

So, the next time your co-worker, roommate, lover, or partner blows you off in the morning or yells at you for drinking all of his Fresca, ask him how his dreams were last night. Chances are he dreamt about you drinking all of his Fresca, because, as everybody knows, you hate Fresca.

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If you're as excited about this Democrat Primary race as I am, you'll probably want to remember Super Tuesday, because, like a dream, if we don't remind ourselves about it, it will fade away. This will jog your memory.