I Dreamed A Dream

You hate it when people try to talk to you about their dreams, and it’s not that you hate the person in general, you just hate them in that moment. It’s okay. The same thing happens to me, because it’s fucking annoying.

It’s fresh on my mind because yesterday my bestie Genevieve (who you’ve never met but have for sure heard sick shit about) ambushed our juice-date/hike with an hour-long retelling of her dream from the night prior. I’m her friend so I had to at least feign investment in her story, but the truth is I felt stuck, I had no where to go and I couldn’t listen to her harp about how it felt to be dream-married to Gerard Butler for one more second. I was imprisoned by her dream. Enslaved even. That’s what happens when you allow someone to not only re-tell you their fucking dream, but also discover new memories that they have from it, right in front of you. Witnessing someone’s personal cycle of self-discovery is not easy for me.

The reason being: it’s selfish. There’s just nothing to say to someone after they do it, besides:

“That’s insane.”

“That’s fucking insane.”

“That’s so insane, whoa.”

So, once I was home and safe and showered, I decided to take dreaming out of my life entirely. It’s basically pointless, no?

No more dreaming for me. I’m not going to dream anymore so that if God forbid someone tries to tell me about theirs, I can simply dead the conversation by letting them know that I do not dream and will not understand anything they are saying. My sleep specialist is going to help me achieve this goal (she mentioned using topical goat oils, which sounds promising) and the only reason I’m telling you all about this is so you know that sleeping, dreaming, and Gerard Butler are not convo starters that I’ll be responding to henceforth. Thx.

LOVE YOU. MEAN IT.
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