In my dream last night I woke up on a Saturday morning after it had rained all night. There was a commotion outside so Sara and myself went to my bedroom window and saw that most of the houses in my cul-de-sac had washed away. Including the Fleet Commander’s. FEMA or similar were there with shipping containers along with the National Guard.
I ran down to the basement to be sure the fortress was secure. Wind and rain were showering in at the foundation because the pink insulation was barely intact. Probably because the cats are always pulling the fiberglass out and throwing it on the floor.
Sara came downstairs and we thought it best to get all the kids off to school and away from the Genesis flood narrative that was upon us.
Somehow our 4 kids multiplied into 9+ kids and I said in my most ludicrous voice, “my God, I’m a man not a school bus!”
I went out to the garage to check on my truck and noticed the front passenger tire was flat. Sara came out and suggested that we go get coffee since the kids had left for school. Then we walked over to the coffee shop since the weather was calming down.
After ordering our drinks I realized that the coffee house was indeed half craft store. The smell of soaps was unbearable.
Then I was back in my garage with my truck but it wasn’t really a truck. It was a jeep tractor. He had a plow on the front and everything. But not a roof, only a roll cage. I drove it with a flat tire to a repair shop that I’d never been to before.
The tire store was similar in look and feel to the one Clark encountered on his family vacation. However, the technicians were cheerful and upbeat. We looked at that flat tire and then I realized something was off.
The three wheels that weren’t flat didn’t have tires on them at all. They were just metal rims like tractors of the olden days.
BUT the tire that I thought was flat DID have rubber on it. It wasn’t securely on the rim either, just wobbling around like an asshole. I told the technician to do what he could and then thought I should head back to the coffeeshop/craft store.
Sara was eating an Avocado/Scottish egg hybrid thing when I got back. I didn’t know what to make of that but she seemed to be enjoying it.
There’s been an infuse of stink bugs (BMSB). I see them at home. I see them in my truck. I see them at work. The dudes are everywhere. My cats won’t even eat them.
Seriously, this past summer I’ve become convinced they’re trying to take over the world.
I’ve never had one actually let loose with the stink though. They seem to be docile little critters, just meandering about town in their brown armor. However, the US Department of Agriculture wants them out of the country for being an agriculture pest. I guess that’s what happens when you’re an invasive species.
So last night I had this dream where I’m watching TV. Don’t ask me what or which station because it’s irrelevant.
Then out of nowhere my program was interrupted with a special broadcast. A dreamy doomsday broadcast. Panic in the streets, cars turned over, red tickers scrolling berserk at the bottom of the screen as pedestrians ran for their very lives.
Beloved readers, the first responders quickly determined the blame (lied, lie, laid) with the darn stink bugs! They’d collapsed a large portion of an apartment building in West Chicago after their hive nest ruptured the very foundation.
The helicopter news footage of said apartments showed a scary scene similar to the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building aftermath in 1995. Luckily no West Chicago residents were injured.
But get this: the real mastermind behind both the American Stink Bug Invasion (ASBI) and the consequential residential cave-in was the dude with the mannequins at the Wheaton All Night Flea Market! Zurko was breeding the bugs in the basement like Jame Gumb was with his moths in Silence of the Lambs. Do you see the parallels? I thought so.
Please note: I have nothing against Zurko or his mannequins. THIS WAS JUST A DREAM.
So then the news reporters were trying to get an interview with Zurko. Figure out what his motives were, etc., etc. But he refused to talk since he was dressed up in his mannequin gear. He couldn’t break character!
I woke up from one of those dreams that wake me because the story turned sour.
The scene was an industrial area early in the morning. The sky was gray, the air foggy and misty. I was shuffling along to meet back up with a group of friends that were having a get-together of some kind.
A car pulled up and an early 20-something boy got out. And then his girlfriend, too. A homeless wanna-be monarch and his queen. Not blatantly hostile but an obvious menace.
As the two walked toward me a two more 20-somethings appeared. And then all four drew closer like wary insects knowing they’re almost to feed.
With a dismal future planned I looked at the grubby crown and said, “do you want the cash in my wallet?” And he nodded.
The dream fast-forwarded as they often do and I was on the ground looking up at the scattered gray sky. The three cockroach minions held my arms and legs while the soiled monarch was lying flat on his stomach beside me. Going through my wallet, flipping business cards and whatever aside.
Then he held up my car keys as the primary prize. He started taking the keys off, unringing them one by one. He motioned that I could keep my truck key and then scooped the others in a pile on my chest, like he was going to keep them.
Pinned on my back I said to him with irritation, “now you’re just fucking me.”
And then I woke up. Because I was done with all of that.
Like I was all about SpongeBob. I went into my bedroom to have a nap (which is kind of funny that even in my dreams I’m thinking about taking a nap).
And then when I laid down on my bed it was SpongeBob as far as the eye could see.
I had a keychain, a plushy, all kinds of toys. He was on my bedspread and pillow cases. Everywhere I looked there the little yellow man was.
And that’s all I remember. I must’ve started dreaming about something else.
My point to all of this is that this is the dumbest fucking dream I’ve had my whole life. And this is why you don’t tell people about your dreams. Ever. Unless you found the cure for cancer while you were asleep, nobody will care about your SpongeBob drivel.
I’m sorry if your dreams are important to you. But it can be downright painful for the person listening to you recount every meaningless scene in your latest dream. Especially when it’s first thing in the morning.
I’m having a hard time getting back to sleep. I woke up from a violent dream and now work matters are now filling my thoughts.
The latter — taking a step back, his code feels too complicated. Structured nicely, segmented well, but may be too tedious to implement/replicate quickly.
The former — a lady broke into my house, I’ve never known either in real life. I beat her out but knew it wasn’t the end.
She came back later with her boyfriend and this time I beat them both unconscious. I was bloody as well and called 911. The police came and it turned into a media circus.
The intruders “sat up” while everyone was distracted but I’d been watching them because I’m of the garden variety paranoid.
I stabbed the woman to death as she was coming toward me. The media shifted their focus from the police to me. The boyfriend had loaded his hands with forks and knives but I stabbed him dead, too. Then I kinda looked around and slowly came back to consciousness.
I didn’t care in the dream about the beatings or killings. After I was fully awake, it didn’t bother me either.
The bothering thing: it doesn’t bother me now that it didn’t bother me then.