The reason I think my brain hates me is because of all the effed up dreams I keep having. It is obviously sending me convoluted messages from my subconscious trying to get me to jump off a bridge, which is actually okay around here because all the bridges are low and that would only be like a 15 foot fall, so I guess my subconscious just wants me to get annoyingly wet and it probably wants me to wear jeans when I do this because wet jeans make me crazy and I yell unpredictable things when I'm uncomfortable like "Jesus! Can you move it along? " and most hookers don't like it when you interupt them at their craft. They are perfectionists mostly, it seems. And then the hooker would stab me, so checkmate! Brain. You've done it again and had me killed.
I swear I'm getting to the story. It's just You-Know-Who (not Voldemort), is also in charge of what I think about and what I write and obviously he's stalling. Jesus. Can you move it along, Brain?
In the dream, I was living in this hippy commune and everyone wore white robes and okay maybe it was a cult, but it was a nice one and there were no secret rape rooms, or baby-birthing dens of continuous fornication except probably my bedroom. (zing!) and the people weren't all weird and zealoty, I mean except for the white robes. Most people don't hang out at home in a white robe except maybe Moses, and he didn't even have a home for like 40 years so he didn't either. So forgetting the robes and before you even ask, I don't know if the men had underwear on or if the place smelled like balls, so don't even ask. Not central to the dream's main theme.
So we're all hanging out (zing!) and then this group of strangers stops by and asks if they can spend the night, and because I'm living with super-hippees we say sure and let them in, and they have a robot with a spike for a head as a pet, and that should've been my first clue, but I was more fixated on how cool it was that they had a robot and I was trying to keep this other bearded guy from sitting on my lap, probably because I didn't want to have to deal with his balls, and all the other people in the house are welcoming the Strangers* and I'm just sitting there in the arm chair watching this whole "Last Supper" type image with men in robes, and woman in robes, and bearded strangers and killer robots and they are all laughing and I turn for a second to do something like talk about robes or whatever...I don't know, and when I turn back it's a scene out of Dante's Inferno. There's an effing impalement for fucks sake. And the children are all screaming and the strangers are making sweet non-consensual love to all kinds of things and the robot is stabbing with his head. And I'm all "Time out! Stop! Time out!" and I realize it's a dream and then I wake up.
I just sit in bed in the dark for a minute reflecting on how fucked up that just was, and I wonder if maybe I'm repressing a childhood memory or something because what the fuck is up with that? And I try not to think about what it means because screw you, Sigmund Freud I'm all about the Baby Steps© and then I wonder if I'm hungry and I say "Yeah. I could eat." out loud and then I go make a sandwich and I forget about it until just now, when I'm writing and I guess my brain thinks I'm feeling inclined to share my weirdness with the whole world or at least a hundred + people in it.
Like I said my brain hates me.
*"The Stranger" is also that wicked move where you sit on your hand until it falls asleep and then you masturbate and you can't even feel your hand so it's like a stranger is touching you and probably everyone knows about that and it's funny and sure maybe you tried it and it made you all sad because of what it implied but that was okay, until that jerk from the front counter burst in on you and was all "What the fuck are you doing in the broom closet?" and "Why are you naked?" and "Holy shit! Call 9-1-1!" I hate McDonald's.
UPDATE: YOU can avoid being my nemesis by reading Mama Pop and my Monday morning idiocy over there.