It's no secret; I'm jealous of all those writers who can write stories from their wonderfully vivid dreams. Therefore, I present a few of those dreams in all their insane glory. NOTE: I am not, nor have I ever been, on drugs. Though there was that one time I had Tylenol w/ Codeine...
Why I Can't Write About My Dreams #3: Arnold Scharzenegger In K-Mart
I was pregnant when this dream occurred. Can't remember if it was child 2 or 3. I had crazy dreams with all my pregnancies. Hormones raging, I guess. Anywho...
I was shopping in the K-Mart of Russell Springs, KY (close to where I grew up) and happened to run into Arnold Scharzenegger. Unlikely, right? Nope, gets weirder. Arnie's not only an employee of K-Mart, but he's also HANDICAPPED!
He comes rolling up in his wheelchair and says in that pseudo-Austrian accent, "Hi Mysti!". Of course, I chat with him like he's there every time I shop for tampons or whatever, and then I proceed to ask him if he can help me find a cell phone for my mom.
Yeah, my mom...who was deceased in the waking world, but who was apparently alive in my dream. And that's about all I can remember about that one.
Was it wishful thinking that I wanted to talk to my mom again? Do I harbor some secret ill-will against Arnold Scharzenegger (the cheating bastard)? Or do I chalk this up to the random crazy shit that oozes through my brain in the wee hours? Who knows, but it's funny as hell, isn't it?
Why I Can't Write About My Dreams #2: Zombie Michael Jackson
Hubby and I were both in attendance in this dream. It was apparently a big deal, because we were seated in a crowded stadium in some remote place.
In the center of the stadium, Michael Jackson had just been taken out of some sort of aquatic stasis (because, like Elvis, he didn't really die, you know) and lay on a table covered with a sheet. We were to witness his resurrection. Not sure who was performing this--perhaps Dr. Conrad Murray? He could use the street cred, after all.
Anywho, I had a terrible feeling that something would go horribly WRONG. So, I dragged my husband from the bleachers despite his protests that he'd miss all the King of Pop resurrection fun, and we went over the back side and into water.
I think it was a moat. Do moats slow zombies down? Whatever it was, I swam for our lives, pulling Hubby behind me again. He can't swim, so he wasn't happy about this. We ended up in some stone-walled building thing that looked like something on MineCraft (if your kids play this, you'll know what I'm talking about--it's a really stupid game).
We made it to some large crevice in the wall, and I crammed Hubby inside. He really wasn't happy about that, either. I played the sacrificial role of blocking the entrance with my body and a blanket, thinking (it seemed rational at the time), that if Zombie Michael Jackson couldn't see or get a good taste of us, that he'd leave us alone.
Sure enough, I heard Zombie Michael Jackson and his keepers approaching. He said, "What's this? I think I'll just nibble on it."
I woke up, kicking at my blankets and startling my old man cat, who reacted to the stress in the usual way--cat yakking.
Why I Can't Write About My Dreams #1: Caterpillar Cows
In this dream, I looked down at my abdomen, where four little bumps appeared. Yeah, it sounds gross at first, but keep reading.
They grew until one of them burst, and a black and white caterpillar fell out. Then it happened again and again--all these little black and white caterpillars popped out of me and fell to the floor. Needless to say, I was freaking out in dreamland.
Here's the funny part. When the caterpillars hit the floor, they immediately morphed into tiny black and white cows about the size of toy soldiers and darted all around my feet. I woke myself up from my freak out, then died laughing. This was about 4 AM. Of course, I woke up my husband and told him all about it. We both had a good laugh and went back to sleep.