"I kind of wish the snow had been a little heavier last night. Just a few more inches."
The laptop landed safely on the crash mat that resembled a large pile of clothes, as I lept to my feet from the couch. It was far from graceful, my gangly limbs betraying my Bambi-like struggles to keep an even footing as I sprinted the short distance to my bedroom door. Almost forgetting to turn the handle as I made my final approach, I narrowly avoided an undignified face-plant as I clambered free and into the hall, across the thankfully unguarded threshold into the kitchen and....
"That's not the first time you've wished for a few extra inches!"
From reading anything I have posted to this point, it will be quite apparent that I enjoy a good bout of word play. And why wouldn't I? As someone who enjoys language, it's not surprising that I'd find amusement in manipulating it to my own ends. Puns, euphemisms, innuendo and anything else I see fit to abuse are even more frequent in my every day speech. So much so that some manner of early warning system has been mooted of late, in the form of a bell around my neck. The Pun Bell would merely provide advanced notice of my approach, which usually means a pun is near.
So what made the kitchen dash detailed above so unusual? I've sprinted through the flat in a barely coordinated fashion on several occasions to finish a pun-off with unfortunate flatmates, and have even walked into a room requesting acknowledgement of particularly pride inducing ones that have had nothing to do with those I am demanding praise from. For example, whilst just last night floating about a notorious social networking website, I attempted to resfrain from rushing into a comment on a picture of myself drinking port from a dessert dish. I surmised that to jump feet first into doing so would have been in "port haste". Only one thing prevented me from smashing the lightbulb above my head as I punched the air in delight- the fact that I had already smashed it in that manner a couple of months ago (I thought it wise not to bother replacing it, such is the regular peril in which it would be placed). Hell, I quite recently got immersed in a conversation online that consisted almost entirely of an hour and a half of bread puns. Well one thing did stand out on this occasion....
It was a fucking dream! I was sleep punning. Sure, I could try to chalk this one up as a one off. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that, as a "snack", I'd consumed six Creme Eggs and two pizzas in the space of an hour and a half before going to sleep. Perhaps I was still in a well rested euphoria after the day before's accidental 13 hour, hangover killing nap. These could make sense, but it wasn't the first time.
I'm starting to have severe questions about what my unconscious mind is getting up to as I slumber. In dreams, you can be and do anything you want (just in case you weren't already aware of this), but for some reason my mind decided that more of the same would suffice. I even got the usual reaction of quiet dismay to greet my efforts, just to hammer home the realism. Seems I sleep in The freakin' Matrix. If things were to be just a little too perfect, I'd wake, unable to accept the reality in which I found myself. So I stick to what some have deemed the lowest form of wit and humour, as I would while awake, and even have seen myself rejected by women in dreams. Damn, that is cold. Way to go, sleeping self.
And I couldn't even have dreamed myself having a fuller head of hair? No, of course not. Even in a dream I had a noticeable bald patch that was troubling me. The response to which was entirely rational and thought out when I woke, as detailed in the perfectly rational, not at all Deer Hunter-esque four picture progression below.
Yet there are little differences I'm starting to piece together.
I have no recollection, nor reasonable guess why, but there are some unusual things going on in my dream state. I have chained together a nine-month, more or less unbroken, spell of waking up with particularly curious songs stuck in my head. See if you can piece together the pattern here, sorted from most to least prominent :
YMCA (The Village People), Bootylicious (Destiny's Child), Eternal Flame (Atomic Kitten version), and on one or two semi-decent sleep shuffle occasions, Fever (Peggy Lee).
Sit down, Sleep Deebs, cos you and I need to have a serious chat. What the fuck are you up to? And why can I never remember when I wake? Have you been sleep rohypnoling me!? Are you the cause of the numerous unexplained head bruises I have accrued, for which I have placed blame on the wall that acts as my headboard? Or are you getting blackout drunk in my unconscious to mask your vices?
Wait, are you my Tyler Durden!? Am I your Tyler Durden!? Seriously, dude, if I'm your Brad Pitt, then you need to take a long, hard look at yourself.
The only other possible explanation is that you've been gaying it up. It would explain my conscious aversion to disco, and mirror balls (I imagine the gay bars that I'm assuming Sleep Deebs is frequenting are havens of disco and mirror balls). Have you been wearing tank tops!? WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING!?
I close my eyes a simple, straight man in a T-Rex t-shirt and enter a sleep cocoon in which I galavant (yeah, that's right, I typed "galavant") in a tank top and hot pants, while presumably West Side Story style gang fighting my way to head injuries (high kicking and low clicking)? That seems a bit far fetched and downright fucked up, even for me. And if that seems like a ridiculous depiction of homosexuality, then you clearly don't know what twisted shit this Bizzarro Deebs can dream up. Come to think of it, neither do I.
So I think that maybe I'll just have to accept that I'm setting up underground "Dream Fight Clubs". It clearly makes the most sense. And it explains the waking bruises....and the songs....probably....right?
*Fun fact: Convinced that something about it looked off when staring back at me from the screen, I actually Googled the word "unmistakable". How very appropriate.
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