The Pervert's Guide to Party-Crashing/Simple Man's Dream/WhisperingEmpanada ASMR/First You Wanna Kill Me, Now You Wanna Kiss Me...

A party was being thrown at my house. Slavoj Žižek crashed it, then got blitzed and ended up crashing on the couch on the back porch.

While this was going down, my sister was elsewhere. She did something foolish which caused her to take a rather nasty spill, earning her a large blood-blister on her chest, over her heart. This blood-blister was potentially life-threatening, so someone called an ambulance and she was rushed to the hospital. Me and my parents — who were alive — only found out about this after she returned home from surgery the next day, tearfully relating the story to us as she peeled the bandage on her left breast back, showing us where the blood-blister had been removed. Suffice to say, neither of my parents were pleased by this news.

* * *

I was a teenager back in high school. I had a new teacher, who was Alannah Myles — an Alannah Myles who was sometimes muscular, sometimes her familiar slender self.

She possessed mystical powers. At a dance, she used her powers to instill me with the courage to dance with a girl I had never seen at school before. So the two of us danced; we both had two left feet, but we enjoyed ourselves nevertheless.

Then the dance ended and the girl disappeared. Alannah told me the girl had been like me, a poor soul crippled by social anxiety. I was told I'd never see her again, but the purpose of this moment was never to set us up as life partners, but to kickstart our spiritual evolution.

Now is where the dream gets absolutely bonkers. This portion is so bizarre, my hamfisted descriptions can't do it justice. Turns out Alannah was one of many angels sent to Earth to kickstart the spiritual evolution of all of mankind. Myself and millions of other people around the globe had been chosen as the first recipients of this program. We were force-fed deep-fried, sausage-sized slugs; experienced Noah's Flood from the perspective of those who'd drowned; and forced to snort a powderized poisonous insect which burned at the touch and was 90+% fatal. All this and a series of other scenarios were meant to reinvigorate our empathy, though I'm pretty sure a good number of them were counterproductive.

The dream ended on a hopeful note for the humanity. A Rob Zombie cover of Bryan Adams' "Heaven" played as it came to an end, like a movie going to end credits.

* * *

The Marxist-Leninist YouTuber BadEmpanada

came to me while I was in bed. Leaning over my ear, he began reading in a low whisper some anti-Christian screed from a heavy ML textbook he was carrying. I knew he was only trying to get a rise out of me, so instead of lashing out, I smiled, saying he was an amazing ASMRtist.

* * *

Mira Furlan spit in Kevin Sorbo's face.

Then they kissed passionately with full tongue action.

Phantasms of a Bereaved Orphan

Some context for this dream. On 1 February, 2019 my father passed away after a short battle with cancer. On 11 of last month, after over two years of chronic hospitalization, my mother passed away from complications with COPD.

* * *

I was asleep in my bed when I felt a presence with me. Opening my eyes, I found the spirit of my father sitting over me, 25-30 years younger than he'd been when he passed. Calmly, with much affection in his eyes and voice, he told me he'd been dwelling in Bethlehem, that he'd been sent to watch over the family. He then vanished into thin air. I was elated by this news, but that elation didn't last long; I quickly realized something was amiss. The way he'd referred to Bethlehem was as if it was a spiritual plane, which it clearly isn't. But the biggest glitch in the matrix was my mother still being alive, which I knew was wrong. At this point I realized I was dreaming and woke up.

Except I hadn't woke up. It was a false awakening. Then I woke up. Except I didn't. Then I woke up. But I still hadn't. I was trapped in a cycle of false awakenings, one quickly sequeing into the next.

I emerged from the cycle. Getting out of bed, I went outside. In my mother's garden, she and my sister were hosting a party with a group of 5-6 people. I can't remember who all the guests were.

(Barbara Hershey and Vincent van Gogh are the only two I'm certain about.)

I hadn't emerged from the cycle after all.

I approached my mother. She was 35-40 years younger than she had been. I tried making conversation with her, but she didn't seem to notice me; she only stared into the distance, face expressionless.

The number of guests suddenly doubled or tripled in size. Now among the attendees was Tara Reid, wearing a bulky bodysuit of cabbage leaves. I took her in my arms and started peeling her leaves away, eagre to uncover her body. However, once I peeled the last of the leaves away, I found nothing but a transparent membrane containing green protoplasm and organelles undernearth. Without the leaves to provide rigidity, her head came clean off her shoulders, killing her.

Then I emerged from the cycle. I went into the kitchen, over to the sink, and standing there, looked out the window. The layout beyond was radically different than I knew it to be; in reality, where a long unpaved driveway surrounded on each side by empty fields are, were two pristine homes with neat lawns directly facing mine. My sister, with her friends Todd & Dave, were fleeing one of these properties in a hurry. Tripping and falling, she transformed into Dave, Dave transforming into a third man I'd never met before. I hadn't emerged from the cycle after all. Entering the home, Todd, nuDave, and Man #3 headed towards the basement. As I approached them, Todd introduced us; it was Alice Cooper.

Then I emerged from the cycle.

I Can't Get No Satisfaction

I was invited to a party being held at a spacious mansion. Once I got in, I found I was one of hundreds of guests present. The door locked behind me, and I found I couldn’t escape the place. The hostess turned out to be the ghost of a woman who resembled Charlotte Rampling.

She kept her own perfectly preserved corpse strung up and used as a marionette.

I went up to the bar and ordered a glass of absinthe. Even though I was clearly thirty years old, the bartender refused to sell me any alcohol without first presenting ID. I didn’t have any ID on me, so the bartender refused to serve me the drink. I spent much of the rest of the dream wandering about the mansion in search of absinthe, but couldn’t procure any. I even came across someone else’s derelict glass of absinthe, but when I picked it up, it turned into a cup of coffee before my eyes. In between trying to satisfy my absinthe craving, I tried ordering White Russians as an alternative, much to the same degree of success.

At one point in the dream, I met Tori Amos, who got flirtatious with me. I repaid the favour, only to have her almost immediately sour towards me and ignore me henceforth.

From the Dream Archives: D & the Wolf

I meant to post this on the 19th, the 2nd anniversary of this blog's existence, but time got away from me and I plumb forgot. 😞

Anyway, this'll be the final entry from the dream archives, as it's the last dream I recorded prior to my turning this blog into an on-line dream journal. It's a good one, too — a perfect subconscious rendering of my scarred psyche.

* * *

(ORIGINAL ENTRY DATE: 20 NOVEMBER 2016)

I don't remember how the dream started, but the earliest part I remember was taking a trip to D's university. For reasons unrevealed to me, a party was being hosted there in her honour, with lots of balloons and confetti and friends and family and acquaintances.

I arrived there looking particularly disconcerting, dressed only in a loincloth, my hair long and unkempt, rockin' the Kubrick Stare. I tried gaining access to the party, but D ordered me kept out. As they tried shutting the door on me, I wedged my shoulder in the door. I can't remember if I begged her to let me in or not, but as I was slowly pushed back out, she stared hard at me. Wearing a humourless grin, she told me I'd never ever be allowed to see her again or get to be a part of her extended family.

Locked out of the party, I then suffered a complete psychological breakdown. Losing all sense of reality, the entire world dissolved around me into amorphous shapes and swirling colours.

With there being a psychiatric ward at the university, I decided to commit myself. The doctor who saw me was a black man, kind of roly-poly; I think he was patterned off of Paul Winfield.

I was then somehow out of the ward and away from the university, where I encountered a pretty, petite brunette. She sported shoulder-length hair and was wearing form-fitting red-and-black clothes.

(She looked much like the girl at top, dressed in the outfit at bottom, with the aforementioned shoulder-length hair.)

She wanted me to do her right there and then against the wall. As we got going, I began my transformation into the Wolf. The personification of all the secret, base desires I keep bottled up inside, the Wolf didn't just want to screw this woman's brains out figuratively, but literally. It wanted to take all my misery and rage and hate against the world out on her, to tear her to spreads and bathe in her blood.

(Scarred psyche indeed.)

Fighting against my escalating impulses, holding desperately onto my humanity, I pulled out and away from her and quickly left before I lost myself to the animal within. Returning to the ward, I had the doctor lock me back up. Now in a secure cell, the Wolf retreated, allowing me to breathe a sigh of relief.

The dream ended there.