Dream love is dream real

This guy I like but don't know very well is proclaiming his love for me and telling me I'm the one. It'd odd hearing this from someone again. Odd, but nice.


Haunt me, you beautiful man

I implore ya'll to hop on over to a dream blog way better than ours (but only slightly). There's a couple of special somethings for the old folks as well.


Bath time

I'm living in a new apartment. I don't know how long I've been living there, but things are mostly unpacked and settled -- even though I don't recognize any of the trinkets or knick-knacks as mine -- so presumably it's been a while.

The apartment is housed inside some kind of huge mansion owned by an older lady who lives there with her family. She seems like a typical middle-class Southern lady: freckled from years of sun damage, and wearing cheesy granny clothes. She's even wearing a sun visor.

The bathroom in my apartment is rather large. It has expansive windows on two adjacent walls -- one side looks into the mansion's giant indoor pool room, and the other side looks onto a grassy courtyard.

There's a jacuzzi tub in the middle of the room, made of slick, dark material. I want to strip down and take a bath in it so bad, but I don't want to be seen, either by the family inside, splashing around in the pool, or any passersby who might happen through the courtyard.

I walk over to the drapes dressing the windows facing the courtyard and close them with a great flourish (they are huge -- the size of stage curtains). They glide shut and I realize I've lost all the natural light and the bathroom is suddenly quite dark. I open the curtains back up and close the sheers instead, but worry that people might still be able to see me inside.


Prison and Spy Missions

Dream 1: I have gone to prison for what seems to be a DUI, but I have befriended a male guard who coddles me and gives me special privileges and generally treats me like his granddaughter. I walk in and out of my cell as I please. Inside my cell is a hospital bed, and I'm in a hospital gown, and I feel fragile as if I've been in a wreck. I know I haven't but that my health is failing for a reason no one can determine (I actually left work early Monday and didn't go at all today for health reasons). I dread telling Al that I've been incarcerated for the DUI (poor health) because I've been sick so many times lately. I wander behind a barn while dreading telling Al about the DUI. I can't even begin to think of how to word it. I go back to my cell and see the male guard leaving out a utility door. I wonder if this will present a problem. I see Jeff's phone sitting on my tray table. I think, "Oh great! I can text while I'm in here. I prolly need to tell him I'm in jail, anyway." Then I realize that if his phone is there how can I get in touch with him? I have a moment of panic. I whirl around, looking for my phone.

Dream 2: I am looking at a photograph of a former teacher of mine - we'll call her Ylffah Ydnic for the sake of Google and my own very fragile pride - that Lindsey has taken for me on a spy mission. It is a face shot, and although the back part of her hair has gone gray, I notice that the front strands have not, even though Lindsey plainly told me that it was completely gray, and the hair around the face usually goes first. I am mystified and enchanted as the photo comes to life and begins to say something. But before she can get a word out I wake up in my own bedroom and can't figure out where I am for at least an entire minute. Then, when I do, I lament that I freaking missed what she had to say.

UPDATE: I just saw the real photo Lindsey snapped for me on her real spy mission and my dream was right! It's not totally gray around the face. It's salt and pepper. My dreaming brain was right! Also, if I may add, she looks so, so hot. SO hot.


Dream within a dream.

I'm at Lindsey's place, only it's completely different. It's a house rather than an apartment, and there's carpet in most of the rooms. She has a live-in boyfriend (husband?). We're hanging out and chit-chatting while I help her move the furniture so we can shampoo her carpets. For no reason, a girl I used to see on the sly back in high school (we'll call her Jamie) walks in and it ain't no thing. It appears that she and Lindsey are at least aquainted with each other. Lindsey has to go to take her man some lunch and a package of paper, and encourages us to take a break while she's gone. Jamie and I sit down on the couch and start talking, but then she's Tamara, and Tamara is talking about how much she misses Jamie. I'm like, "I thought you didn't even know Jamie!" to which she replies, "Everyone has a Jamie." Then she is Jamie again. Lindsey is back and she says that since all the stuff is out of the way, ____ (her fella) will finish when he gets home. She said his name but (sorry!) I didn't absorb it or I can't remember it. I stand up and bang my head on a low shelf. Suddenly Mom and I are driving through Germantown and something in my car goes wrong. I have to pull over and Mom says that we need a specific tool from a specific store, and points to an upscale-ish department store, which is closed but we see people inside. One of the people opens the door for us and then we're coming off the escalator and into a beauty-counter area. My attention is drawn to the Chanel counter and I trot over to get a spritz of some Allure, Luke's favorite on me. Out of nowhere, there's a singing man in my way. I immediately recognize him from high school; he was a total jock, one of the "hot guys" and he had a big thing for me which of course was pretty much ignored at school, since I was not exactly a cheerleader. I stopped talking to him because what I needed was a friend and he was disturbingly horndoggish. He never got in my pants, and I think that through high school there was some lingering resentment about that even though he was basically nice to me. We'll call him AJF. Anyway, AJF is between me and the Chanel counter, singing and dancing around. His singing voice isn't too bad, kinda like Michael Buble and in that style, but he looks like a damn fool. And he's singing about all the women he's looking at, making up the song as he goes along. It's creepy; he's singing about all the asses and thighs and how he just can't help himself. He's using the "p" word constantly. I'm the only one who notices him. He's danced off to another lady, so I start looking at the pretty perfume bottles and making a mental note to look for a new atomizer. Then he's back, and he's making a big, grand sweeping gesture with his arm that knocks over and breaks all the pretty bottles. Undaunted, he sidles up really close and says, "Hey, funny-face! My funny valentine! Dance, funny girl?" and breaks into a jig and starts singing about the tall redhead (that's me) whose lady-parts he never knew but still wants to. I'm impressed by his clever rhyming but he still looks like an idiot and I still think he's pathetic. Then I'm suddenly back on Lindsey's couch. Jamie and Lindsey are looking down at me and I realize that when I bumped my head and conked out and that I had been dreaming. I say to Lindsey, "Oh, man... I need to write down my dream quick for Nocturnal Admissions! That was crazy!" and she agrees and starts rummaging through things for a particular dream notebook she keeps. She rummages into the other room and Jamie starts rubbing my shoulders. Then she touches my face and leans in to kiss me and I stop her. I'm very confused and I don't want her. I get mad and tell her she doesn't want me in particular, she just generally wants everybody. She starts crying. Lindsey walks in and hands me the notebook. She notices Jamie crying and looks at me like, "What's her deal?" and I roll my eyes and shrug. I flip open the notebook and start flipping to find a blank page. We hear her significant other pull into the driveway and come up the walk. I flip to a page that has a picture pasted to it, a picture of Lindsey and her ex, and there's a poem to go with it. She gasps that she thought she had thrown it away. Jamie storms out. Lindsey's guy, who is too dream-blurry to identify, comes in and sees the picture/poem in my hand, yells "Goddammit!" and walks back outside and sits in a chair on the front porch. Lindsey gives me a hateful look and I feel really low, like I've gotten her in big trouble. She goes outside too and that's when I wake up.


Big Kitty.

Last night I had another bout with a scary sleep paralysis situation, only this time it did not involve the hag I usually see. Instead, I dreamed/hallucinated two small slightly glowing eyes in the crack of the bathroom door, and I either then saw or understood that they belonged to a big cat, like a mountain lion. I credit this completely to having earlier viewed a forwarded e-mail of a mountain lion/cougar on someone's back porch. I couldn't move or scream (duhr, because that's what happens with sleep paralysis) but of course I awakened just before the cat pounced. This is obviously a clear case of a picture just getting lodged in my head and popping back up later. Its significance to me is that this is the ONLY time I can remember the hag not being part of the s.p.



Theogeo started a new career as a call girl.


A coked-out feline chases me up a metallic staircase. It clacks up the stairs, mewling and meowing the entire flight. Finally, it leaps on my face and starts clawing my nose to shreds. In real life, I jolt out of sleep only to find myself punching a nearby pillow.


I'm wearing a pink gazebo balloon animal to my sister's wedding. I'm completely naked except for the pink gazebo balloon animal wrapped around my midsection. "That's so gay," a wedding guest says. I begin stroking the pink gazebo balloon animal. I look up at the guest plainatively and say, "it's a part of me."


Wow, brain. Wow.

Last night I dreamed that my brother and sister were murdered and buried in a shallow, shared grave in my parents' backyard.

I remember going through the initial grief, and then trying to maintain my composure, doing well for a while, and then thinking about being an only child for the rest of my life. I remember standing on the grave without realizing it, and watching the dirt — red clay — shift to show a bit of someone's sleeve beneath it. Then I remember having a complete sobbing breakdown on the floor/ground, complete with heaves and honks and drool and snot bubbles and convulsions. I remember my parents trying to comfort me.

There's more, but it's all gotten quite foggy and I'd rather put it behind me anyway.

This may be the most fucked-up dream I've ever had.


Shock value


We are riding on a bus, heading who knows where. It's packed with kids I don't know and kids from my senior class. And Jack White, fresh from either the De Stijl or White Blood Cells album. He's sitting in the seat in front of me, next to the aisle, chatting and laughing it up with the more popular students. His hair is delightfully mussed and he's wearing a red shirt (as if you couldn't have predicted).

I suppose I'm trying to get his attention in any way I can. So I'm babbling loud mnonsense to my seatmates, who are giggling at my lack of shame. Suddenly, I blurt, "GOD IS A PUSSY."

Hahaha, I'm cracking up right now even writing that because who the fuck says that aloud, much less in a dream? I'm a horrible person, clearly.

My exclamation fails to get Jack's attention but everyone around me reels in shock that I'd ever let such blasphemy cross my lips.


I am at the Young Avenue Deli with my old friend Amy F. (whom I haven't seen or talked to in real life in a few years). I've just trekked there through what is definitely not Cooper-Young but more dense and old and cobblestoned (probably some Parisian street I saw and internalized when I watched Paris, Je T'aime the other night). I'm ordering food from a plump young lady with short red hair. She is utterly bored with the task of punching my order into the computer and ringing me up. As I stand there by the bar (in this dream, unlike in real life, the food cash register is near the bar, not in the other room; in fact the layout of the place is all jacked up in the dream so I won't even try to explain), Amy and I are talking about newspapers and she begins going off on designers who insert errors into stories and make reporters look bad. (Amy, for the record, is not a reporter and as far as I know, couldn't give two shits about journalism.)

We get in a tiff in which she basically calls me out for ruining one of stories way back when, and she demeans my very profession in the process. I'm devastated that she would be so hard on me for making a very human mistake, which I explained was the result of several people's errors, not just mine. She continues berating me as I look over to the side room and see the popular kids from high school (what is with all the high school dreams lately? yeesh) getting drunk off of bottles of wine (including a magnum of Hogue White Harvest, yum). I've had my fill of being made to feel like shit, so I tell the cashier lady to forget about my food, even though I've already paid, and I stumble out onto the street like I'm drunk, even though I've not been drinking, and try to make my way back home through the cold, damp streets.


Performance anxiety

My dreams were all about the zombie walk again. Specifically, how I've managed to fuck it up or not do a good job.

This time I'm in a huge movie theater full of people. It's an IMAX theater, it seems, with massive stadium seating, and we've just watched a promo movie hyping the next zombie walk. It's over and people are scattering, but I feel like I need to say something to them, so I rush down to the front of the room and attempt to yell over the din, but my voice doesn't carry at all. Someone hands me a microphone. I can hear my voice coming out in a comically distorted tone once I start speaking.

"Wow, I don't think I really sound like that, do I?" I ask the crowd, most of whom are ignoring me. I keep talking and talking and listening to my voice through the microphone and wondering why it sounds so hilariously obnoxious. Finally, someone changes the settings and my real voice starts coming out.

I make my announcement — I don't even remember what it was — and then go inside an equipment closet with my fellow organizers. Inside the equipment closet is a small spiral staircase. We go up it, and it gets smaller and smaller until it just ends.

Then we come back down.


There's also some stuff knocking around in my brain about how we had some video that didn't get done on time, and there's a point at which I'm standing in the middle of a busy highway intersection.



from 2003

I was running. I was running from Jim Carrey. I had become entrapped inside a mid-revolutionary battle house during a nuclear holocaust, and Jim Carrey was my torturous captor. Bombs exploded outside, in all worlds, through and through, reality was unraveling, and I was skipping from world to world, lost from my own, in a warp zone tree infested modest two-story home. With my crippled pit bull in tow, I leapt from limb to banister in fevered and breathless panic in hopes of completing my mission and escaping back to my world with my dog. I found a warp hole and shimmied through into a vine-entangled jungle room. A suitcase bomb took out some flooring of the room in the next world, and my viney floor dissolved into a yawning gap between the trunks of two gigantic trees. My dog became laboriously heavy in my leather satchel, but I continued in frenzied haste down the tree house sidewalks towards a glass exit door. It was an exit to the outside. I could see shrubs, and a paved parking lot with modest sedans of grayish blue and maroon – it was my world! I crawled on my belly through the door and paused at the edge of the brick building, relishing in the edificial fire cover it provided against the turrets. I rested my dog’s satchel against the wall and positioned myself to peep around. Explosions, screaming, bullets shredding, my heart pounding; I inched the outermost corner of my left eye around the wall – too see a pair of army boots. I looked up in terror to see Jim Carrey smiling sadistically as he pulled back a long sword, then buried it in my skull.

Darkness surrounded me, and a deafening toll sounded. My heart pounded as I slowly became aware of grey contours about me. I lurched upright and stared at my blaring alarm, whose face dutifully read 5:14. Oh. The dim melancholy of my small upper room reminded me that there was no revolution, and I was curled on my sunken brown couch under a star-covered afghan having a nightmare.

When you suddenly remember a dream you had...

...or at least the feeling you got from the dream itself and you feel as though it was a dream you had a long time ago...and possibly more than once...Are you remembering a dream you really had a long time ago or are you suddenly remembering a dream you only had the night before...or at least more recently than you think...and it only seems as if it's old?

Earlier this evening I was passing through the little swamp just before you get to my parents' log house in Hernando when I saw something that triggered a visual sense memory. It was around 6:15 or so and the sun was still out, but the sky was beginning to fill with semi-vibrant pinks and oranges...which reflected on the surface of the water. The water is also rising down there. It isn't necessarily as high as it's ever been...so says my mom...but it's getting high enough that they were forced to purchase flood insurance. There are several bridges you have to cross before you get to their house and lately, they've been closing them more frequently with our freakish April showers.

Long story short...I see the colors of the sky in the water and I remember a dream that I had at some point in my life...I feel like it was years ago...where I'm forced to travel across a very thin pathway...which is sometimes underwater and sometimes barely above...and sometimes very high above the water...so high that to fall off would most certainly result in me being rendered dead. BUT the one constant is that there is always water. At times my family is with me...maybe other people who I don't know now, but whom I was familiar with in the dream. We're travelling somewhere. Sometimes I feel like we're in a car and sometimes we're going on foot. Our path was once a road, but not much is left of it. Sometimes I feel like I'm swimming. The colors are very vibrant. There are blues as pure as cobalt from a tube...pinks and oranges. They seem like sashes that sort of flow in the breeze or in a current if they're under water. All I know is that I'm on some kind of important journey and despite being scared I have to continue.

So within a few seconds of seeing the colors on the water today...all of this sort of comes rushing back and a question forms in my mind. What if...and it's a big what if...but it's an interesting what if...What if the Big Bang or whatever formed our universe was a sort of controlled event...not by like an intelligent designer...no...not that...but the kind of explosion that is the result of an event...the kind of result that could be predicted. For instance if we mix two chemicals we know what type of reaction will play out. What if everything...man evolving from sea creatures, man developing the wheel, and ultimately becoming what we are today...is all some sort of predictable...controlled reaction? What if dreams are glitches that occassionally act as metaphors to the real journeys we're taking in life? What if that old dream (which I forgot to mention seemed like the road to my parents' house) is some sort of a clue about my life's ultimate path...if it has one? What if? What if we're accidentally catching a glimpse of a pre-destined roadmap for our lives? Maybe?

Deep...I know.

Maybe one day I'll write about the dream I had in the 10th grade where I (in the dream) dated Kelly Kapowski from Saved By The Bell (Tiffany Amber Theissen-sp?) for the better part of a month. When I woke up I felt dissoriented and when I realized it was only a dream I felt like I had been dumped. It really hurt that much. That residual break-up feeling lasted for a good week. I'll never forget the time we had together, Kelly. Never.


Edge of a crater

The same dream with the crazy storm has now progressed to where I'm sitting on the edge of a very large crater alongside my father. The ground is very spongy and I feel like I don't have a good grip. I feel like any second now I'm going to tumble down off the side into the crater and die. I continue sitting with my back to the crater, looking over my shoulder and trying to dig my fingers into the spongy earth.

Someone next to me on the other side points across to somewhere inside the massive indentation and says "that's where it hit." Lucky for me, my sarcastic mind never skips a beat even when pumped full of adrenaline at the fear of falling. I think to myself, "It's a crater. The whole damn thing is where it hit, genius."

Mother nature hurls Crayola colors

I'm at a beach with a lot of people I know including my sister who is out in the surf while I walk on the beach looking around at people and wondering about the menacing clouds approaching.

The clouds are not the average dark grey thunderheads. They're rather brown and resemble something more like a sandstorm than rainclouds.

About as soon as they're over the beach, softball-size drops of mostly yellow paint come falling out of the clouds and making big "sploosh!" sounds in the water. People start screaming and running. I'm looking around and realize these paint bombs aren't bursting and dissipating very much. They're actually rather gelatinous and they're ensnaring people in the water and on the beach.

It's strange, too, the color of these things. They're mostly bright yellow, but there are swirls of red, green, blue and purple in them that occasionally appear. The water has since turned from blue to an Easter-like pale yellow with rivulets of other colors.

My sister is screaming and crying as she tries to climb out of the surf and onto land to flee. I see a few people move to try to help her and I turn away to keep running. I've been hit by two or three of these Crayola blobs that I've shaken off as I climb over a breaker and stumbled down into some long soft grass.

I start clambering up an embankment full of flowers, grabbing and tugging at them to help myself up to the path. I yell at people to head east. "You have to head east before you go north!" I shout.

Your guess is as good as mine


It's New Year's Eve. I don't know this just yet, but it will become apparent in just a bit. There are people everywhere. I'm not sure where I am and I don't really recognize any of the people around me. Some dark-haired dude I've never seen before comes up and starts cutting my hair with very large, very frightening shears. He is cutting in such a way that I am afraid he's going to slice me open. I tell him to be careful, and I close my eyes tight in fear. Suddenly he kisses me square on the lips and I open my eyes and realize it's because it's midnight on New Year's Eve. Everyone starts cheering and celebrating and I realize that he has cut my hair into a ridiculously short bob*. This distresses me a great deal, as I'm quite attached to my long hair and I tend to look weird with short hair. I freak out and leave the place.

Outside, it's dark, and there are people perched next to cars, poised to take photographs of the people who come out of the building. Like paparazzi. I cover my face and lament that I will look so lame in the photographs thanks to my short hair.


Amber is sitting at a table full of girls I don't know. They are all dressed in mid-'80s garb — acid-washed balloon overall shorts sets, for god's sake — and all of them clearly think they're onto a trend. Amber's wearing more jewelry than I have ever seen, and I note to myself that I have got to borrow her awesome dangly fuschia gem drop earrings. She's also wearing a hot pink cat broach, and a yellow dog broach (I did have one of these when I was a kid), as well as layers of necklaces and bangles on her arms. Her hair is cut short again.

Several of the girls at the table look uncomfortable. I don't know if they all know each other or not. I call out one of the girls for wearing all that '80s crap and not even liking it. She stands up to confront me and ends up being 9 feet tall.

* Yet another dream for which I pulled content from that day's events. My friend Ashley just got her hair cut really short and told me about it over e-mail yesterday at work.



It was a veritable carnival of anxiety dreams in my skull last night. Bollocks, I can't remember many specifics of any of them.

1. It's zombie walk day and not very many people have shown up. Worse yet is that the ones that have shown up don't seem too terribly excited, and are underdressed and underwhelming and guess who feels like a total failure? No, come on. You can guess. That's right. THIS CHUMP.

2. I am riding in a car with a blonde-haired European dude who looks like some kind of weird Elijah Wood knockoff. He is being a pretentious asshole about something ... though I don't remember what ... and I'm trying to console him by telling him it's not really as bad as he thinks. And as soon as I reach out to touch him, he acts repulsed and freaks out and wrecks the car. We are careening off the road when I force myself to wake up.

3. I'm in an odd and foreboding version of my great-grandmother's house. It seems like there's some sort of permanent darkness outside. I'm hiding out from someone. Someone who feels drunk and violent. I try to lock myself in the bathroom but spend several harrowing seconds trying to get the door to latch and then lock. It doesn't matter anyway; the door feels thin like it's made out of balsa wood and could be smashed by a single pissed-off fist. Whoever's looking for me gets in the house ... and I remember having to leave the house and get into a car ... feels like there may have been rain. I don't know where we ended up going.


Brain update

For the very first time in months, my brain dislodged the high school test mememe.

In last night's dream, I was finally on time for once.

It could be that my subconscious realizes that I will disparge it publicly on the Internet if it doesn't get its shit together for once.


Late Registeration

I've been having this recurring and deeply cliched high school examination dream.

Says Dream Moods,
"To dream that you are taking an exam, indicates that you are being put to the test or being scrutinized in some way. Such dreams highlight your feelings of being anxious and agitated...You may also experience the fear of not being accepted, not being prepared, or not being good enough. You feel nervous, insecure and tend to believe the worst about yourself.These dreams also suggest that you may feel unprepared for a challenge."

Christ. It's like they're living in my brain.

In my test dream, I'm always stoned or late for this exam. Last night, I dreamt that after smoking a spliff, I waded through a gang shooting and tornado en route to high school.

Oh...it's cool that my cat is my car too.

Actually...the line from my dream was "Oh...it's cool that Heinrich is my car too." But see...I knew none of you guys...ok...like only two of you guys...the two I know...would know who Heinrich was.
SO...I'm on my way to a friend's house for something important. I pull up into the drive...which is somehow inside a house...and realize that despite my little red hatchback being tiny...it still has its ass hanging out in the road...which might be a hallway since we're actually in doors...but I can't tell. The driveway is maybe...MAYBE 2 feet long. Right in front of my car is a bookshelf of about 4 feet in height and on the other side of that is a long slab that runs 12 to 15-ish feet on into what now seems like a dining room/garage. My logic dictates that if I continue driving forward my wheels will drive up the bookshelf so that my car is diagonal and no longer in the road. Somehow it works, but when I go to step out of my car it changes the dynamic and the car begins to roll backwards. My friend/student Cody is there now with his handlebar mustache and he's helping me try to figure out what to do. My car's wheels are now really close together...like the wheels of an ab roller (shut up) and I'm able to pick it up and set it onto the slab/table thing. Only...now, my car is green and plastic and the wheels are white. I see my cat Heinrich running by and am concerned that he can't fit in the garage as long as my car is there...but then my car turns into Heinrich and runs away...to which I respond "Oh...it's cool that Heinrich is my car too."


I'm just not this frisky.

Without going into a lot of small detail and TMI, I've recently had a crop of vivid sex dreams, mainly starring people I am not attracted to/don't even know. Most notably, Bret Michaels. The night that I encountered the Rock of Love itself was also a night fraught with sleep paralysis and nightmares, though I have to admit that, surprisingly, Bret wasn't too shabby of a dream-partner. Other people who have shown up lately include but are not limited to: ex-coworkers, members of bands I like, and even a politician. I have no idea what any of this means. I've never had so many of this type of dream, so close together. (It should also be noted that there is little-to-no pleasure with these dreams, during or after. They're just fuckin' weird.)

The Asslicking Bandits

Criminal Activity

Unknown suspects have been breaking into houses in Williamson County. The suspects have been trussing victims up like a Christmas turkey and performing acts of anal penetration on said victims. The time of occurrence for the majority of these crimes has taken place between lunch and dinner hours. One of the suspects has been described by the victim "TvontheFritz" as an Asian-American woman in her mid-40s who bears an uncanny resemblance to Margaret Cho.


I'm in the house in which I grew up and I notice there are a fair number of cobwebs in the corners and around the place.

Then, this one woman I don't recognize is telling me that there are in fact spiders everywhere, but I haven't been looking at them.

So, I start looking around and I realize ... she's right. There are spiders building webs all over the place. In fact, I'm surrounded by them. It's a labyrinth of webs and I'm stuck in them. To get out of the house means I'm covered in webs and spiders.

I look down and realize two light brown monsters have already made their way onto my clothing. I pull off a shoe and fling them off me, then beat them to pulps once they land. Then, I start swinging my shoe through the air, clearing the cobwebs and killing spiders in the way.

I have a nice bubble around myself cleared only to realize ... I haven't been seeing the smaller filaments. Now I realize there are still more around me as I furiously swing my shoe in an effort to clear them.

Then, in the ultimate brain-telling-itself-that-this-is-psycho moment, several people walk up oblivious to the webs and spiders and ask me what I'm doing. "I'm clearing the spider webs. Don't you guys see them? They're everywhere! And spiders, too!"

"No," they say ...

Straightjackets on sale only $29.95. I swear ...

Something borrowed, something ... doesn't add up

I dreamed that my mother was planning some sort of all-day extravagant wedding celebration for herself and her new husband. They were going to get married in the morning, kick back and relax in the afternoon, then have a huge celebratory reception at night.

This night thing was supposed to be black tie. In my mind, I had already picked out what dress my mother should wear. It was daring but it's elegant. It was also very expensive.

My mother, on the other hand, was worried about costs and seeming snobbish spending all this money. So she picked out this kimono looking shapeless dress with pants underneath. It was white with black designs on it and it looked like pajamas. I mean it was like polyester made up to look like silky fabric with folds and creases still in it. And the pants underneath are just a smidge too short from where they should be.

Then she's wearing these abominations she called "shoes" that looked like she was trying to cover up bandaged feet and still wear wedge heels.

All this leads me to the conclusion that my mother is crazy and doesn't want to go through with the ceremony.