It's commonly known that there is nothing more boring in life than someone a) telling you about their crazy travelling stories, b) telling you about their crazy drug taking stories, or c) telling you about their dreams.
But this is my blog and I don't give a shit. So I'm going to tell you about my dreams. I'll spare you the drug tales (because my ma reads this) and travelling tales (because I've never been travelling. I like to go on holiday, not backpack around scuzzholes fraternising with students and sleeping in, ew, hostels.)
I regularly have dreams that leave me with a lingering sense of unease, sometimes dread, often gloom. It's part of the reason why I have such a sunny disposition most of the time. Repetitive, endless dreams about your dead dad will do that to you sometimes. Takes the gloss off any early morning burst of spring like joy you might otherwise feel.
But I've sort of got used to it. And, let's face it, it's the only time I'll ever see him again so I'd probably choose to keep them, even if some are rather more traumatic than others.
I also dream of boys what I have known. Over and over again. They're generally being arses. Much like real life. In fact, often exactly like real life.
People I know have dreams about being superheroes, or flying, or doing something spectacularly amazing. My dreams are a repetition of things that actually happened. I mean, what's the fecking point of that? I know what's happened. I was there. Is there any need for my psyche to torture me by playing my own personal showreel of failures and humiliations I have known?
The other night though I has one that was spectacularly grotesque. I was in a family situation that distresses me for reasons I won't bore you with now, but it all went a bit wrong and then I found myself feeling like my tongue was sore. So I ran it around the inside of my mouth and realised it was forked. And then I pulled something out of my mouth. I looked down and I was holding my tongue in my hand. My actual tongue. I looked in the mirror and just had a little flapping stump oozing pus in my mouth.
I remember looking at my tongue in my hand, flapping like a dying fish, and looking in the mirror and then waking up. It was 4am. I didn't sleep again for about six hours.
Doesn't take Dr Freud to work that one out, eh?