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Dreams are something we share…
Dreams.
I said, Dreams, readers.
That’s what I’m blogging about today.
Duh-reams.
Not your stupid, 4 year old, “I want to be a fireman” type dreams, or the ridiculous and lofty, “One day I’ll own my very own bacon wrapped hot dog stand” dream [Mmm], or even the dream of being featured in this blog… [read: dream on]
I mean the kind of dream you dream when you sleep. The subconscious vacation from reality, that is equal parts imagination, desire, and double-yew. tee. eff.
Dreams that happen in your sleep aren’t necessarily tied to “well-wishing” or unrealistic expectations… but instead offer up a white trash casserole of visceral input from your world… the “throw it in and mix it up” jello pudding orgy of abstract thought. Just like grandma used to make.
We all have them. Some we remember, some we wish to forget.
I have some that I’d like to forget…
Like the “running from the ‘Boogie Man’ in slow motion” dream.
Like the “falling from great heights” dream.
OR like the time my ex-girlfriend decided to “dream a little dream.” A little dream you and I have all had at one time or another… Just not while sharing a bed with someone…
You know what I’m talking about, right?
Nothing.
Nothing, dear reader, can prepare you for the test of your love…
…like waking in your partner’s piss.
(Not even if it’s warm. [read: it usually is] )
So, you wee see, dear reader, there is no way to explain it, or empathize with the cold-sweating beauty lying next to you who says in a very distinctive tone of voice…
“Uh, honey?… uh, Baaaaby… DON’T. MOVE.”
I moved.
Aaaaaaaand; I’m traumatized.
My hand, is traumatized.
My arm, traumatized.
My skin, my sense of feeling, …wet noise… does not compute…, and then… my nostrils.
TRAUMATIZED.
I look at her in disbelief, “could it be?” Chased with a “how could you?” But I didn’t want answers… I wanted a warm towel. And an exit strategy.
But as if her only defense, she looks down at her wet lap and shrugs, as if her most trusted organ cried “MUTINY!”
But that’s no excuse.
My bed, flooded.
My sleep, flooded.
My trust,… effed.
One can only wish they made mini sand bags for this type of catastrophy. Mini National Guardsmen coming to my rescue and pulling me from the rushing yellow waters with a mini helicopter while wind rushes around me, chopper blades howling, I’m spinning upward and I’m yelling back down to her, “We’ll be back for you!” But what I mean is, “You did this! Save yourself, Peebody!”
But there was no Helicopter. No FEMA.
Only FEMAle.
I’m a flood victim.
And still, years later, a victim. I may never recover.
Nowadays, don’t “uh, honey” me. Cause then I think I need to grab a towel.
For every, “Baaaby?” A sponge.
“Bambi Eyes” say, “better get a mop.” [read: Or a gun]
And you think that’s all, dear reader? Do ya? The end of my trauma?
It’s not.
Nothing can explain why this would happen to me twice… Yeah. I said it. With 2 different girlfriends! Less than pleased, over here. I’d tell you their names, but I can’t afford to lose any more karma. [Obvi.]
I’ve tried to explain it to myself! Tried desparately to rationalize! Tried to make myself feel “better” with the following “rational explanations”:
Rational Explanations:
- “It’s because you make people feel so comfortable, self. Even the bladder is at ease.”
Fail. Not feeling better about it.
- “Well, she thought she was at the toilet, so it’s not like she isn’t house-broken.”
Fail. Still can’t shake the feeling of waking in a wet bed. [chills]
- Would you prefer she wear a diaper?
$#@*&!!, CACK! [read: throwup in mouth]
Critical Fail.
… ok. I’m good.
So who knows? Maybe this is a common dream experience? Anyone? No?
“That will never happen to me, Punvert” you say.
Famous last words.
“Did you piss them off?” you ask.
Huh. Hardly.
“Will I have to experience that? Is there a ‘trickle down effect?’”
Very funny, reader. But, don’t worry. You’re in luck, reader. There is a bright side. Hope cresting over the bright yellow rainbow.
At the very least, you will have one of the best laughs you’ve ever shared. I mean, laugh-out-loud, “this could break us up” funny. Haha. See, doesn’t that feel better? (Albiet, left smelling like a restroom at Applebee’s.)
So now, its a fond memory, or so my therapist says.
Geez… all this talk of water has made me…
uh…
damn.
“Uh, honey?”
-Punvert, OUT!
p.s. Somebody grab their Dream Book, and help a brotha out.