Maybe I forget the crimes I commit. I do have a bad memory.
I dreamt, vividly, last night, and I remember it so well, perhaps, because I was woken abruptly by a series of coughs that are the last remnants of a cold. (Yes, I caught a cold in summer. Sigh.)
Basically, I was walking up the steps to my parents house, after hanging out with friends, when two men--one of whom was James Van Der Beek--came up to me, rather agitated. In my dream, I instantly became alarmed because we had agreed not to meet for a while. This meant there was A Problem. They threw a metal tube (that was somehow also a drinking glass) at me and said that they couldn't keep it any more. It was a bit rusty, but I panicked because it could have easily been blood.
It probably was blood. We had killed somebody, months ago, and they were now throwing the last bits of evidence my way to hide/dispose of. As I ran into the house to sterilize and bleach out anything I might have touched ever (CSI says you can't type blood if it's been bleached!), I was trying to remember if, in fact, I had been a party to murder. How had I gone on living so indifferently since that sort of thing? I began to question whether it could even have happened, given that I hadn't really changed my lifestyle all that much. Was I a monster? What the hell...
Naturally, I awoke in the midst of that panicking and spent ten minutes at 5 am this morning coughing my lungs out trying to remember if I HAD KILLED SOMEBODY. Basically, it was a more macabre version of this dream that I do still have all the time. Unpleasant in the extreme, but it's good to know that dream-me is as appalled by the idea of my being able to kill people and live a normal life afterward as real-me is. I believe this particular twist came up as I was contemplating how I would have fared and, should I have survived, lived after participating in one of the Hunger Games. As for why James Van Der Beek was in my head, I blame this post on Project Rungay that I read yesterday.
Basically, I was walking up the steps to my parents house, after hanging out with friends, when two men--one of whom was James Van Der Beek--came up to me, rather agitated. In my dream, I instantly became alarmed because we had agreed not to meet for a while. This meant there was A Problem. They threw a metal tube (that was somehow also a drinking glass) at me and said that they couldn't keep it any more. It was a bit rusty, but I panicked because it could have easily been blood.
It probably was blood. We had killed somebody, months ago, and they were now throwing the last bits of evidence my way to hide/dispose of. As I ran into the house to sterilize and bleach out anything I might have touched ever (CSI says you can't type blood if it's been bleached!), I was trying to remember if, in fact, I had been a party to murder. How had I gone on living so indifferently since that sort of thing? I began to question whether it could even have happened, given that I hadn't really changed my lifestyle all that much. Was I a monster? What the hell...
Naturally, I awoke in the midst of that panicking and spent ten minutes at 5 am this morning coughing my lungs out trying to remember if I HAD KILLED SOMEBODY. Basically, it was a more macabre version of this dream that I do still have all the time. Unpleasant in the extreme, but it's good to know that dream-me is as appalled by the idea of my being able to kill people and live a normal life afterward as real-me is. I believe this particular twist came up as I was contemplating how I would have fared and, should I have survived, lived after participating in one of the Hunger Games. As for why James Van Der Beek was in my head, I blame this post on Project Rungay that I read yesterday.