Daydream Believer

Ah, yes. I am about to, once again, venture into the most controversial of blog genres...

Not racial commentary. Not talking about girls. Not telling tales of white jeans nor typing stuff up whilst drunk nor reminiscing about one's marriage.

The genre is, naturally, explaining a dream. In a sleeping sense, not in a racial commentary way. And in a general way, not a dreaming about girls kind of way.

Personally, I like to hear about peoples dreams (but not aspirations... those make me jealous by reminding me how dreadfully adrift I remain). I have a friend that blogs about her dreams and I try to read them and figure out what's going on in her noggin. I have another friend that rarely even bothers to tell us about his dreams because they are so frequent (or at least frequently remembered).

I am sure I dream quite a bit, but I almost never remember them.

Today, though, as part of the "Ed O. Napping His Life Away '08 Experience", I had a dream that I actually recall. I have decided to actually articulate it now, rather than ending this blog as a sort of Meta Dream Explanation blog.

The setting was the kitchen of the house I grew up in. I was talking to a friend--we'll call him OJ (because that's his name)--and I was filling up a cup with something to drink.

(Analysis: I just was discussing on the phone last night that I've lived in my current apartment for about nine months... I think that subconsciously that impacted me (I could have, with a bit of luck and good timing, seen an entire new wave of my babies gestate to fruition in the time I've been living here) and I don't really have some place I call home. I guess it's here. Maybe I'll never have a place I call home the way I did my childhood house.

I was talking to OJ because I saw him for the first time in months on Wednesday night.

I was filling up a cup with something to drink because I was (and am, interestingly--why am I typing rather than drinking chocolate milk or water or orange juice, in keeping with the OJ theme?) thirsty. And I almost never use glasses made of actual glass.)

OJ and I were talking about how great it was being roommates. I commented that I was worried we all weren't going to get along, but that it was going well so far. I finished the cup of beverage but still was thirsty, so I grabbed a glass and filled it to the rim with what I think was creme soda.

(Analysis: I've never had roommates. I know both of OJ's roommates, though, and I saw both of them last evening. His male roommate, actually, I saw for the first time in months, but I was on the phone as I walked by him on the street so I waved but didn't stop to talk to him... maybe that was sort of "communication interruptus" that stuck in my brain. Also, interestingly, I was mistaken for that roommate Wednesday night when I introduced myself to some guy with our group of people and he said, "I know. We've met like 10 times. You're Roller Girl's [codenames only! This line isn't safe (hmm... except for OJ, I guess)] roommate." Which I am not. Except, it seems, in this dream.

The glass of creme soda actually sounds quite delicious right now. The glass in the dream was one of the only glasses I own: part of a six piece set that I won as a Scaryokie finalist at Ozzie's last year. The glass's presence was obviously representative of the insane amount of time I spend at that bar. The glass's glass-ness emblematic, perhaps, of how sometimes I do things differently than I normally do (given I almost always drink from plastic cups.)

I am not sure if we started walking or if I left OJ or if I was just magically transported to the living room, but I was about 15 feet away from where I was originally, and I was drinking the creme soda. I noticed what I thought was ice in the drink, but as I mouthed the chunk it didn't melt and I thought that it was glass.

I spat up the little bit of glass and there was more than I'd thought. One chunk became 10, and 10 became hundreds. The spitting became a deep-throated hacking cough, and glass bits came out in some sort of mini-blizzard of shardage.

There was no pain--which struck me as odd--but I was having discomfort breathing, and I was coughing out more air than I was able to take in. I was confused and I was suffocating and I called for my mom.

She didn't answer, and although I was dimly aware of people around me, I felt alone and that my exclamations weren't be taken seriously. Things started to darken and I woke up.

(Analysis: the "mom" thing was, I believe, rooted in the "My New Haircut" video that is on YouTube. Also I literally called my mom Friday evening after work and she didn't answer. I left a voicemail (one of those voicemails where I explain that I don't have anything to say... the exciting ones).

The chipped glass might have originated in Mexico. Flowers and FBomb broke a couple of Corona bottles and I was just reviewing pictures of the trip on Tuesday night with a friend.

The rest is kind of fucked up.)