I can count the number of enjoyable dreams I’ve had on one hand. The first was about a time-limited shopping spree in Toys ‘R Us when I was six. A couple years later, I dreamt about canoodling Posh Spice in my sleeping bag.
It pretty much went downhill from there.
Since then, my dreamscape has become a psychological shit field; a Freudian playground filled with upsettingly easy to dissect metaphors.
But unlike the sheep who turn to Google for basic symbolism and vague meanings, I think our dream worlds are very much up for interpretation. Here are four of mine. Please help me understand what the hell is going on.
1. I’m riding in a Dodge Caravan with Mr. Burns from The Simpsons. But, like, the human version. We’re on our way to a women’s rights rally. Now, contrary to what you might believe, Mr. Burns is actually very progressive, pro-choice, and incredibly empathetic. We’re chatting about Chelsea Handler when suddenly a mob of Brazilian soccer fans attacks our van. Dozens of drunk, angry, Ronaldinho look-alikes. One of the huskier hooligans gets right up against our window and pounds his fist against the glass. “Why’d you cook those tacos!?” he shouts. Then he smashes his forehead into the glass, shattering it with his bloody skull. There’s a lot of screaming. Mr. Burns puts his head in-between his legs. Then I wake up.
2. I’m on a field trip in elementary school. We’re going skating. There’s only one problem: everyone else in my class plays hockey and I don’t. As such, my friends are much faster at tying up their skates. Before I even have my left foot in, they’re already on the ice gliding around like a bunch of pre-pubescent Elvis Stojkos. It’s taking me five, ten, twenty minutes to do up a single stitch. Hours fly by. The sun starts to set and I’m still on the bench. By the time I finally step onto the ice, everyone has left and I’m totally alone. I head towards the exit but the arena doors are locked. I bang and bang on the door but nobody answers. A Zamboni pulls away into the distance. That’s when I wake up.
3. There’s a massive music festival inexplicably taking place in my high school gymnasium. My favorite band is headlining and I happen to bump into the lead singer backstage. He’s in a panic. Their lead guitarist is missing! The show starts in five minutes! They NEED someone to fill in. AHHHHHHH! He asks me if I play and I sort of do, so I tell him I’ll be right back – I just have to grab my guitar from the hallway. I run towards my locker, but when I get there I find hundreds – no – thousands of guitar cases identical to my own stacked against the wall. There’s no way to tell which is mine. I frantically start checking random cases but each one I open is empty. Sweat begins to bead on my eyebrows. From inside, I hear the muffled roar of the crowd and the bleeding boom of bass as the show begins without me. Then I wake up.
4. I’m at my grandma’s house, but it isn’t actually my grandma’s house. There are gophers everywhere. Gophers on the couch, in the cabinets, and dangling from the ceiling fan. Gophers on gophers on gophers. I run to the backyard to escape, but there I find fifty more furry spectators seated around a circular stage. My grandmother walks over to me. “It’s time for the show,” she says. “Take my devil sticks”. I’m terrified. But there’s something in her eyes that tells me it’s going to be okay. So I take the batons, step onto the stage, and begin performing a routine I never knew I learned. Gracefully. Confidently. It’s better than any ballet, and the gophers are hypnotized. But when I go for my grand finale (a pirouetting cross n’ toss) I flub the landing and one of the devil sticks drops to the ground. The gophers gasp. My fingers fall off my hands. I wake up.