I Don't Know What the Fuck This Is

I Dreamt About our Policy on Afghanistan? Or Maybe on a Midlife Crisis

I just took a nap on the couch I just blogged about and had the weirdest fucking dream. I tried to scribe it as quickly as possible so that I wouldn’t forget it and you could all understand what goes on in my fucked up subconscious.

We lived in an apartment that looked like this:

The ocean emptied into our apartment so the beds became islands that we swam between and played. It was fun. Then Orcas started showing up. At first this was fine. At first we escaped the ocean and sat on our beds – we were content to separate our playtime into water and dry; based on the orca schedule. Then we got greedy. We thought we should not be scared of these Orcas. These killer whales. We got hammers and mallets. Some of us attacked the Orcas, whose vision wasn’t great by pummeling them while we swam with them in water. But they were strong and they could fight through it and we were weak swimmers who could not build up enough momentum to smash them hard enough. At first we felt guilty, but then it felt necessary.

We went back up on our beds but now they were attacking us. We would escape to refuge of others’ beds but the Orcas would build up speed and jump up onto our dry land. This was our chance. We smashed their heads in with sledgehammers. We beat them with golf clubs. The tide started going out and our rooms began emptying of water. The Orcas had to take chances to flop around on bare wood floors snapping at us as we swung at them with baseball bats and 2 by 4s. Because this was a dream the Orcas transformed into Sharks. A shark came screaming up out of the water and I heard screams in the next room. When I arrived someone had managed to duct tape the shark high on the ceiling and it was now my job to bash the brains in with my golf club. It still was flopping around trying to get to water or peopleblood, whichever came first. People from the lofted bed were yelling advice on where I should hit it next. Most advice was stick with the head or “go for the testicles” as though the shark’s balls were some weak spot on an evil robot in a cartoon that needed only to be hit once in this specific point to be destroyed. As I whined that I couldn’t hit it hard enough, someone else finally hit the shark in the head and body with enough force that it died. All the water had emptied out of our rooms but we were still fearful of the last shark/Orca that we knew was out there. It was angry and we knew it could come up on our hardwood floor with patterned rugs and hanging wall art.

He jumped up into our room, transforming midair into a lion. We screamed like girls in horror movies and someone smacked him in the face with a shovel. The guy who had been the most manly this whole dream came running in from another room and started pummeling the lion’s snout with a ball-peen hammer as it pawed and growled at our supple, delicious bodies. Then a little goth girl whose character had been introduced earlier in the story but seemed inconsequential walked in slowly and gently, pushed a chainsaw into the lion’s face, and from its kingofthejungle mane shot out blood all over us. We looked at her guiltily and said thanks, she said no problem, and I woke up.

I have no idea what this means, but my friend, Will, just described it as sounding like if Quentin Tarantino directed the Chronicles of Narnia and I like that. I dream about gruesome Christian propaganda.


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