Monday, July 26, 2010

Night Three: Bullshine and Sunshit

1) I am, again, at my place of employment. I am (again!) serving strange iced beverages to customers: Iced tea with rainbow-striped ice cubes and black olives. This is apparently a smash hit, as more and more people keep ordering it. The deli is bustling with business and everyone is raving about our ice cubes - they come in various colors and shapes, including dinosaur-shaped ice and people-shaped ice. Someone comes in and I suspect she has been sent to spy/check in on me. She is, however, friendly and casual in speaking with me. She leaves her journal sitting on the counter (a journal, incidentally, which is identical in every way to the journal I have been recording dreams and thoughts in, of late). I decide to go through it. Upon opening it, at first glance, I notice my name scattered generously amongst the writing inside. Before I can read it, she comes back and I quickly attempt to close it. I fail to secure the elastic around the journal in time. As I hand it back to her, she inspects it and I realize that the pages are out of place. She doesn't mention anything, but I suspect that she has noticed.

2) I am having some sort of (consensual) physical relation with someone who even dream-me realizes I really do not want to be having physical relation with. I regret it immediately, and I feel angsty and awkward for the remainder of this portion of the dream.

3) I am humming a tune, and attempt to remember the lyrics. I remember that the lyrics are "bullshine and sunshit". I attempt to remember the artist, and soon remember that it is a Sheryl Crow song.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Night Two: In Which My Dreams Are Not Nearly As Terrifying As Night One

1) I am at a tattoo parlor on some sort of group excursion. Awaiting the arrival of the unnamed artist, I flip through a few portfolios. There are two artists at this shop, and I am leaning towards one in particular to execute my newest tattoo. Unfortunately, the other shows up alone, and as I hadn't had a chance to check out much of her work yet, I decide that maybe I can still get something really cool done. She shows me a scene she's drawn, a moonlit path with towering pine trees, a gold moon, bats in the sky; it's rather neat really. According to her, the last time we talked I had asked her to draw this up to me. I point out that we have never met before, and she argues a bit, but finally concedes that yes, she must be confusing me with someone else. I am a bit wary, but ask her to show me a sample of her script font, as I am considering getting a particular phrase tattooed. Well, she admits, she is pretty awful at script, and wouldn't want to risk it. I then attempt to describe a particular style and design of a floral tattoo I'm interested in, and she really doesn't seem to grasp that either. I consider asking her to draw up an elephant for me, but as I already have an elephant tattoo and she seems rather inept regardless, I decide it's in my best interest not to. (Fun Fact: Prior dream-tattoos of mine have included a Santa Claus-themed full arm sleeve, a giant portrait of Jim Morrison on my back, and an entire AOL Instant Messenger conversation with my friend Julian on my calf.)

2) I return to my house, get out of the car, and begin walking up the driveway when I hear an ominous creaking sound. Before I have time to really do much, my car begins rolling rapidly backwards across the street and into my neighbor's yard. Imagining the damage that is about to occur, I'm fairly worried, and stand waiting to hear a crash. Instead, I hear the "SPLASH!" of the car launching into the lake I live on. I'm mildly concerned, but only because I suspect my grandmother will not be pleased with this situation. I head inside and explain it to her as best I can. She is hardly bothered; she reminds me that I have another perfectly functional car in the driveway and all is well.

3) I am arriving at the local grocery store's deli for my first day on the job. My first customer orders two "New Orleans Cokes". I ask her to please explain what this is, and she does; in fact, she writes a brief recipe including a diagram. Basically, all you need to do is, take a tall plastic cup and layer ice, tuna fish, rice, ketchup, and corn, and then pour Coca-Cola over the whole thing until the cup is full. Delicious! I head into the kitchen and toil over this, scrounging for ingredients and measuring and double-checking the proportions, until I'm satisfied with my work. The woman seems pleased, and I am pleased. I return to the front end of the deli to find the lights off and not a single of my new co-workers in sight. I head into the back room again to find everyone sitting around a big table, talking, laughing, eating lunch, and enjoying themselves. I ask whether everyone is on break - yes, this is the deli's break time and no, no one bothered to inform me. I rush to fix a sandwich, not knowing how long the break lasts, or how long it has been going on before I noticed. Returning to the front end, I find that the meat on display in the case is actually false, and the actual cold cuts are dispensed from sort of vending machines that slice it and spit it out for you after you choose a meat and the weight you'd like. I opt for salami, but the machines are confusing - not labeled entirely in English, meats I've never heard of, things that look like salami but might not be - and I can't get a meal together in time. Break ends. I don't complain, just wander around looking for the hand-washing sink. I finally locate it, and there are various hygiene supplies stacked on a shelf next to it. Among them is an antique-looking box of tongue scrapers.

-End Scene-

Night One

(Note: the patch I'd been using this day fell off, and around 6p.m. I applied another; possibly this, or the fact that it was the first night I slept wearing the patch, is responsible for the intensity and sheer terror of this dream.
Note Also: the following dream contains violent imagery, but if I can dream it, you can handle reading it, sissy.)

I am at my place of employment, which is now an outdoor hamburger stand of sorts. I slowly realize that money is disappearing from the register, and then even more slowly, I realize that actual people are disappearing. Not murdered-in-cold-blood-before-my-eyes disappearing, or vanishing-in-thin-air disappearing, just sort of not-here-anymore-and-there's-no-good-explanation disappearing. I realize that this is an Agatha Christie sort of situation, and decide that since anyone among us could be the thief and potential murderer, I ought to keep the situation to myself and try to solve the mystery before it's too late. I find solace in a single co-worker (who shall hereby be referred to as Dean, to protect the innocent, or something) who I deem to be trustworthy, and explain the situation to him. He agrees to aid me, but before we can really get too far in solving the murders, I notice that one of my teeth is a bit loose. I can't leave well enough alone, so I head to the bathroom to inspect it. As I'm wiggling the tooth, others become loose, and pretty soon I am spitting all of my teeth out, en masse, into the sink. (A side note: I've dreamed this particular situation before, and each time, I think to myself "Shit, I've dreamed about this, but now it is ACTUALLY HAPPENING TO ME!") To remedy this situation (dream-logically), and for comfort and protection, I convince Dean and another male co-worker to lay cuddling with me on the floor. They protest that this situation is, well, a bit compromising and awkward for them, isn't it, and I tell them that any girl would be thrilled to be in my place, and that should be enough for them. Apparently it is, so we all head off to dream-dreamland.

The next morning, I awaken in a huge mansion to my (real-life) boyfriend's mother asking us who would like a soda or perhaps a mango juice. I'm feeling good about this situation, as clearly no one seems to feel their life is in danger, and perhaps everything is okay, and decide that it'll be mango iced tea for me, thanks. Come to find out, my trust in Dean is misplaced, because wouldn't you know before I even get to drink my damn tea he is chasing me around the house with an antique-looking steel syringe, the sort with holes for your fingers on the plunger, and trying to inject me with it. From what I can see, there is some sort of noxious-looking black liquid inside.

I try to run, but my feet feel like lead. I attempt to slam doors in his face, but come to find that every single door is either too big or too small for its frame. I manage to wrench the syringe away from him and inject him with it, but he actually seems to enjoy it. I mean, he laughs coarsely and emits a satisfactory sigh, and puts his hand on mine to push the plunger down faster. Entirely sinister and disturbing and overall fucked up. He chases me into the kitchen when I spot another antique surgical tool, a pair of sternum scissors (curved, sharp blades, steel) that is aesthetically matched to the syringe he wields. I quickly pull out his penis and, looking away, saw through it with the scissors. Once I am satisfied with the amount of blood yielded from his gruesome injury, I run to find help but realize that I am now alone in the giant mansion. I head back towards the kitchen, and in typical horror-movie fashion, I find a pool of blood but no body.

-End Scene-

The Story

I have not had a cigarette since the morning of Tuesday, July 20th. To aid me in this seemingly impossible task, I purchased a box of Walgreen's brand transdermal nicotine replacement patches. Of course I worried about withdrawal symptoms; irritability, fatigue, moodiness -- all of which I have been dealing with. I was also concerned with possible side effects of the patch. Past attempts to quit (using Nicorette gum) ended with me becoming ill and not much better off for the nicotine I was ingesting, so I ended up falling off the non-smoking wagon.

Reading the informational brochure enclosed in the box of patches, I was presented with the typical side-effect-of-anything fodder: Headache, nausea, fatigue, rash, blah blah blah. No big deal. One warning, however, struck me as particularly unusual: "Nicotine patches can sometimes cause vivid dreams or sleep disturbances." Seems innocuous enough, I thought. That probably only applies to a few people in a hundred, I thought.

Perhaps this is well-known among the medical crowd, or perhaps users of the patch, but I'd never heard of it before. Well, let me tell you, I am a believer.

If I worked for a corporation manufacturing these patches, I would be concerned (or possibly pleased) that people would start using these things recreationally.

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