I don’t get why no one likes to hear about other people’s dreams unless it’s because most motherfuckers don’t know how to tell a good story. It might be a dream, but you still got to structure that shit up. You can’t be all, “and then…and then…and then.” Even my four-year-old stepson knew that was a bullshit way to tell a story. Didn’t stop him from doing it, but at least he’d get a sheep-ass grin on his face when he did because even he knew that was some bullshit.
I like my dreams. I do. Even when I hate them. I like them. It’s messed up. I’m afraid of them, and I should be, but I’m also drawn to them, and I shouldn’t be. It’s a conflict.
Like how I always dream about college, but in my dreams I’m actually succeeding. The thing is, though, it is still a dream, so you know that success is going to be twisted as fuck. And that’s a considerable scope right there, the good old Twisted AF. That includes everything, and I mean everything. This is called being Rich in Content. Our scope here might be poor in morality, but it’s definitely rich in content.
But that’s not why I like dreaming about college. I like how I’m actually going to class in a college dream. Yeah, I might be naked or worse, I might be dressed up like a clown, but at least I’m going. I like how in a college dream, I know how to talk to girls.
See, your brain knows how to tell a dream story. Lots of ways to twist it up, though, and this is no joke. Take age. When I dream about college, I might still be how old I am right now, but my classmates are the age they were then. Or even if I’m the right age, there will be this look on everyone’s face. Like they know. This dude ain’t our age. This must be some twisted dream magic because this motherfucker old. He don’t belong.
And there it comes around, back to the truth. All the twisted stuff has to have that little nugget of truth. That motherfucker don’t belong. No shit, Sherlock. Somebody get this guy on the dean’s list already.
But then some twisted stuff is just too true for its own good. I can’t deal with it. Screw Sigmund Freud. Or I think it was Freud. I might have been gone that day in Western Civ. Either way, the deal is your brain knows the truth before you do. Either way, your brain’s got an unlimited number of lies it can use to tell the truth.
And it’s not my fault that some twisted stuff feels so goddamned real. Like I’m back at college, and I’m fifty-two, and I’ve got my own dorm room, and I’m the only one on my floor with my own room, and strangely, I’m the only 52-year-old there, and motherfuckers are walking up and down the floor making all sorts of crazy-ass noises and smells, but it doesn’t feel so good. I can’t just ignore the smell. I can’t just write the scene off to rites of passage or some misconstrued connection to Animal House. It doesn’t make me feel like I’m a part of anything, that’s for sure, and I’m standing in my room all alone, and I’m looking at that door, and I’m listening to that noise, and then one of those motherfuckers knocks on my door, and I’m holding on to that door. I’m holding on so I can really feel it, I can feel it in my bones, that motherfucker knocking, and I said this was realistic, right? So we all know there’s no way in hell I’m opening that door. I’m too afraid, but there’s also a part of me that wants to. There’s a part of me that needs to open it, but I’m afraid of that part too. It’s too much. The stories the brain loves to tell. They are no joke. They got me here on purpose, they gave me this story, and now the only thing I can do is wake the hell up and stop telling it to you. I’ve got to get my ass off this stage. Sometimes the only thing you can do with a dream is to drop the mic.