I dream Chris is with me in a Stingray. He drives me to the ocean. The air is yellow, the car is yellow, everything is yellow.
The oneiornaughts would have me believe I am single-handedly responsible for 9/11. The Towers, quite phallic if using Freud’s interpretation, a molten mass of desecration. The oddness of, perhaps, having seen Atta taking a CDMA course at my place of employ at the time, compounded with the imagery of fire ants swarming a nearby handset.
They would also have me believe I am single-handedly responsible for the limitation of our rights as citizens and that the constant monitoring is a form of self preservation (theirs, not mine). It seems to serve them to believe I shall be impoverished for life, that I deserve to bow down before the alter of the Veterans who have died for our liberties. I shall forever be locked out of the sacred circle of trust, forever on the outside, inside the fold, yet banished as if I were …I don’t know… worthy of banishing. My therapist assures my I am suffering from delusions of grandeur and persecution. All of this will go away when I begin the television medication regime.
I dream I am a sleeper car, once disconnected from the train.
Perhaps inspired by sleeping in my car.
I dream I am a railroad tie, fit to be nailed.
Apparently I pissed off the wrong person. I’m still not quite sure what happened or why. I am to confess that they win. They are superior in all regards. What I thought was harassment turned into a strange initiation right, or maybe it was the reverse. I didn’t want to send my photo from work, and that translated into two words. I deleted all the emails I had received from a personals ad, deciding I don’t want to meet anyone over the Internet. It seems this complete and total social awkwardness became what I am to believe is a total landslide of events.
I do not dream I am any number of wooden pieces to which floorboards are nailed.
Every person I know is it risk. Former friends, boyfriends, acquaintances.
For a brief moment I was a sleeper, experiencing sudden success when previously thought to be a complete and utter failure.
Ah, the promotion evaporated when in a fit of hysteria I confided in my boss that people were threatening to kill my family. Somehow this was intertwined with an epiphany that video of my sexual assault had been made available to my co-workers. That was a lovely experience which preceded my eleven-day car sleeping adventure.
I do not dream I am a sleeper sofa.
Probably because I was sleeping in my car for eleven days.
I dream I am by the ocean. A whale befriends me.
I still have yet to read the American Classic, though in active imagination, I visualized Moby was my only friend.
I am a sleeper agent.
Freud would love this. Ferklempt, I am overcome with emotion at the mere suggestion that I have been presented with the unique opportunity by screwed by our Service Men as a form of ROR. I am not simply a whore, I am a Decorated Veteran who has proudly (though unknowingly) served our country flat on my back. I wonder if I will receive benefits at the Veterans Assistance Hospital following inactive duty status.
I am suddenly awoken to the fact that I am awash in a sea of PPs.
My therapist has been hacked. I confide that my only friend is a whale. I feel small sitting near the ocean. Moby Dick becomes every man named Michael, the smallest is the biggest dick and only one was my boyfriend. Leave it to me to befriend the biggest dick of them all. I slept with him as well. We fucked like rabbits.
I dream I am railroaded. Tied, bound and gagged. Unconscious. Fit to be nailed.
While I am sleeping, perverted men who get off on somnambulists screw me.
I dream I am screaming a the the top of my lungs, “I am a sleeping mountain!”
Perhaps I was practicing lines for a porn film. Somebody, somewhere will get off.