Drag Race on Dream Street (Death and Gore Remix)

Holy hell, there’s been a drag races on Dream Street!

I used to be a really prolific dreamer. And it wasn’t just the amount of dreaming and recall. To say that my dream life was extraordinary would be an understatement. This isn’t a brag. This is a curse.

My dream life has declined significantly in the last five years, which in some ways has been a relief. I chalk it up to hormonal changes — less estrogen, less sleep. Less dreaming.

The last few weeks, however, my dreams are resurfacing in a major way. I had my first dream hangover in a long time night before last. And what the hell was going on night before last?

WARNING: What ensues interests probably only my shrink, whom I haven’t seen in much too long. Plus, some of it is really horrific and involves very bad things happening to children. On second thought, you probably do want to read this, you perverts.

I was visiting a house where clothes were left all over the floor. I looked in the mirror: I was probably 20 years older, but very fit and dressed like a hootchie with low-slung gray shorts, belly chains, and big Dolly Parton hair. When I turned sideways, a long flap of skin hung off the back of my leg, like a snake shedding. I also had some cellulite on my stomach that I don’t have now.

Some of the dreams have been horrific — like the Malaysian gangsters who put a terrified street urchin boy on their billiard table, driving a metal stake into his open mouth to fasten his head to the green felt surface. They proceeded to play billiards, driving the balls against his head until his blood soaked the table.

I honestly do not have it out for Malaysian gangsters or street urchins. Or even billiard tables.

Last night, I was living with these two Caucasian women who had a five-year-old daughter named Martha. (This is a leak in from watching Doctor Who last night.) I left the flat we lived in and stepped outside into Disney World’s Main Street, U.S.A. I came right back to the flat because I wanted to pick up something and found the two women hysterical. “We thought you were home! We stepped out for a few moments and left Martha here. Now she’s gone!” I said, “Why didn’t you make sure to ask me to watch her? I could have totally watched her.” I decided it was pointless to argue. I ran outside, looking for Martha. Last I’d seen, she was wearing a white dress with white stockings and white shoes, her long blond hair pulled back from her face. I looked everywhere. There was a parade. I shouted her name everywhere I looked on Main Street. She had vanished. I decided to hop into a single-person transport pod to jettison back to the flat. They had these things lined up like four telephone booths, shoulder to shoulder, by the restrooms near The Haunted Mansion. Just after I jumped into this very snug compartment and was about to launch home, these two Japanese women tossed in their baby. I shouted, “NO! Don’t do that! It’s not safe!” There wasn’t enough room for this tot and me both. She was almost squished up against me. I could see her face turning blue because the safety bumpers inside the pod doors were pinching her neck. I tried so free her, but to do so would require wiggling out of the safety bumpers myself. The baby turned purple. I started screaming…

The beginning of the week featured a dream hangover from a somewhat recurring dream so tedious and deeply annoying, I’m not relating it here.

I don’t know, though. I don’t think I want my street bumps back that prevent the drag racing. Maybe just a few more races, and we’ll see what I’m wishing then.

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