Post-Modern Drunk: The Dreamer Examines His Pillow
My dreams hate me.

Okay, "hate" is probably a strong word. But they're not really doing anything for me, either. When they're not importing much-hated famous dead authors to taunt me, or tormenting me about the idea that all my successes are predicated on an illusion, they're just boring me to fucking tears. An interminably long dream last week could be titled "Parallel Parking Is Really Hard to Do At Night," which covers the plot, the theme, and all the supporting characters in one really short sentence, leaving the rest of the evening to see all the permutations of that immortal theme.

And yes, I know, by it's very nature, discussing your dreams with another person is weird and vaguely rude. Because no one has any interest in your dreams; all the things that felt significant to your sleeping subconscious can't be communicated to another human being hours after waking up from your dream. You can't even remember why it was significant that the talking penguin was wearing your father's sandals; you can only remember that it was significant. If you're an exceptionally good storyteller, or you have an exceptionally good dream, maybe you can entertain your audience for just long enough to get to your next anecdote without too many disapproving glances.

But even by that standard (i.e., I really shouldn't tell people about my dreams, because I'm just going to bore them...or worse, they're going to respond, "That's interesting. Actually, I had a dream last night where..." and you'll be stuck listening to their wretchedly boring dream story), my dreams recently have been any standards exceptionally boring.

I actually had a dream last night featuring a girl I've been interested in for months. This sounds like the start to a relatively good story, doesn't it? But no. In my dream, we discussed campaign finance reform, while trying to take the subway around the city.

Let me say that over again, because I'm not sure it can really sink in properly the first time around. My gift from Mr. Morpheus was that I got to spend an evening with the literal girl of my dreams talking about FUCKING CAMPAIGN FINANCE REFORM. No double entendres, no subtle dream seduction, no skin, not even any coy glances. Just an extended adventure on an elevated A-train discussing the merits of the McCain-Feingold bill.

This is why I hate my subconscious. Because--even though I'm a very politically involved individual, who probably spends a couple hours of day reading political blogs and political news--I don't give a shit about campaign finance reform. I realize it's a problem that needs to be dealt with, but really, who actually cares? If my brain is going to take the effort to actually cast someone in my dreams who I actually want to be in my dreams, then the very least it can do is actually give me something to do. Give me a big scary monster trying to kill the both of us! Let us run for an eternity and never actually escape! Toss me out of a plane with her! I love dreams of falling! At least the accompanying hypnagogic jerk actually wakes me up! Give me a big full color Busby Berkeley production, with dance numbers, a Bollywood-style villain, anything. Even a rote action movie sequence, with jumping sideways in slow-mo while spent brass clinks on the floor, would be preferable to a dream discussion about the relative merits of Joe Lieberman's contribution to the debate. To any debate.

The worst part about a boring dream--at least as compared to a boring reality--is that at least in reality, boredom occasionally puts you to sleep.

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snotgreen and scrotumtightening				i heard the news today (oh boy)

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