Serial Dreams, Rerun Dreams, and The Meaning of It All.

Sigmund Freud, in his book The Interpretation of Dreams, said that dreams are "…disguised fulfillment of repressed wishes."

Dudes. I am so messed up.

Not only are my dreams whackadoo-vivid, but they are as emotional, action-packed, and crazy-pants as anything in the movie Inception. I should probably invest in a spinning top.

On top of that, I have mini-series dreams–you know where they stop and I wake up, and then when I go back to bed the next night the dreams pick up where they left off and keep going. And then do it again. And sometimes, again. You know. Like yours do, right? Right?

And then there are rerun dreams. I'd like to smack some of those. How many freaking times do I need to find myself standing behind a velvet curtain surrounded by garishly dressed people, and suddenly remember I am the lead in a dystopian version of Oklahoma! but I've never practiced and don't know my lines, and the curtain is rising and I'm supposed to sing "People Will Say We've Been Genetically Altered To Be Attracted To Each Other"? Or worse, remember that I've got an honors-level Molecular Biology exam (which is how you know it's a dream) and I've never gone to class (then again . . . )

Does Freud really think I want this stuff? I mean, who would wish this:
I wake up in an absolutely gorgeous mansion in the English countryside. It's everything I ever wanted: spacious, filled with mullioned windows, hidden rooms in the basement and attic, and a kitchen so big we could entertain the royal family in it. There are tunnels between bedrooms, and gardens and lakes filled with — wait for it —  black-ops guerillas in deep-forest camo. They crawl all over the property and into my windows, which they can do without opening them. Men with grenades explode the wood-panelled library which is filled with giraffes that have come out of the African mural on the walls. The giraffes and hyenas — which have let themselves in through the chandeliers — stampede across the kitchen, flinging pygmies left and right, many of them landing in the marinara. I run to the piano room and interrupt a recital by Shaquile O'Neal by screaming, "What are you all doing here! Don't you know there's a recession! Get out! I'm too poor to make the payments on this place! OUT! And take your cream puffs with you!

Totally sick of THAT dream.

Or this: 
I've hiked across Michigan and ended up high in the Italian Alps somewhere above Siberia. The Matterhorn is in front of us, and behind that, Everest. A small, charming village snakes its way along the narrow road that leads to the highest peaks, and everything is lit like Christmas. It is snowing. It's like a gorgeous European resort. I could live here. Except I can see a terrible storm brewing in the distance and know the aliens will be here any moment. I start to sing but the locals shut me down telling me there are no women's rights in this town. However, I could go across the street to Nieman Marcus and get a milk shake if I want.

Just had that one again last night.

Or finally this:
I am a governess in, yeah, the English Countryside. Ensconced in a gorgeous, mullioned-windowed mansion on an estate filled with lakes. The place is owned by a deeply sad young and handsome widower with two children, and I have been hired to look after them. I have short black hair, for some reason, but wear victorian dresses with lace and little glove-lets. I am falling for the young Lord, and he often smiles sadly at me whilst we go on picnics for which I have made cucumber sandwiches and fresh lemonade. He is starting to seem drawn to me. My hopes rise.

Then one night in the midst of a terrible storm someone knocks. And just as both the young Lord and I get to the hall, a gust of wind slams the door open. And there, silhouetted against tremulous flashes of lightening is a woman with blonde hair done up in a perfect Gibson-girl, with an enormous velvet and lace hat situated upon it, a perfectly cinched waist, doe-skin gloves, a parasol, and a face that looks exactly like one of my husband's ex-girlfriends.

She steps in and proclaims in a dulcet voice like flowing honey, "I am Lorianna." And the love of my life immediately falls under her spell, never looking my away again. I have lost him forever! I am relegated to watching the children whilst he frolics with the little huss–

Um, you know what? I think this is all a little too . . . Never mind. I made it up. I dream about serving people. All the time. Like Mother Theresa. Yep. That's what I dream. And curing cancer. I dream that too. Plus inventing chocolate and little fluffy kittens. I TOTALLY dream that.

Bye.