I Just Had The Best Dream

When someone decides to tell you their dreams, it’s usually a sign that you’ve got a minute of listening to someone trying to offer you massive clumsy insights into their precious, hidden psyche.
“I dreamed I was falling down a pit, do you think that means I am not keen on being a gigantic failure for the rest of my life?”
Because the people who tell you about their dreams are often quite dull, they’re the kind of people you ignore. But this opens you up to a new situation. The situation where you are listening to someone telling you about their dream, but you didn’t catch the bit where they told you it was a dream.
You, the sudden listener, feel like they’re opening up their true, interesting self – and your aghast reactions are giving this person exactly what they want; a reassurance that their subconscious is the most shockingly imaginative cloud factory to which you’ve ever been exposed.
Of course, the fact that this person’s most noteworthy and recountable dream is something that just about constitutes “quite an interesting story if it had actually happened” is the depressing opposite, but you can hardly say that to their face. It’s a kind of symbiosis, I swear it fucking is, but it is short-lived. For when the mistake comes to light, you must part – an abused host and a parasite bloated with self-regard.
TWO MINUTES INTO A TYPICAL DREAM CONVERSATION
LIFESPONGE: Meeeeh. Snib zha zha zha. And I said to him shakkatakka. Hnggg. Hnggg. Told him to fuck off.
YOU: What?
LIFESPONGE: Bold as you like, I just said “fuck off”.
YOU: Then what happened?
LIFESPONGE: Well, he didn’t know what to say. Shut him right up.
YOU: Good for you, that’s excellent.
LIFESPONGE: Then I flew away. And I was reading a book about that, it means I’m up for a promotion.
YOU: You made me care for you, Denise. You made me believe there was something substantial inside you from which I could hang my emotions. This is nothing less than a betrayal.
It’s something I’m completely guilty of myself, but at least I waited until I’d had ten really shit dreams before I got past the embarrassment of sharing them.
Yeah, well that’s all very well, but I JUST HAD THE BEST DREAM and I’m going to tell you about it so FUCK YOU.
MYSTERYU DREAM THEATRE
THE CANDLE AND THE HOOF
Alright, so I had to light a candle. This is basic stuff – lighting a candle is one of the primary ways of unlocking a door / causing a chest to appear. I had even been presented with a griddle – a source of fire, perfect for my quandary. My problem was that the griddle – which had a fucking great big horse on it – was twenty yards away from the candle, and the candle was fixed to the ground.
It wasn’t urgent, and I didn’t mind. I was outside an American High School, and there were people sitting under a tree that I liked the look of. I’m like that in my dreams, I’m devil-may-care. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was wearing a denim jacket, I’m that laissez-faire with goings-on.
Then this guy showed up, and offered me the solution; use the horse’s hoof to transfer heat from the griddle to the wick of my candle. The horse, he explained, is incapable of catching fire – it simply stores the heat energy in its hooves. It’s like when dogs pant, he explained, and I nodded in a sage way that must have screamed “Do go on”. He dragged the leg of the horse over to the candle, tapped the wick, then put it back on the griddle to refuel.
Nothing happened, but my friend explained that the wick was still cooking, “because it was microwaves”. I was about to deliver a brutally sceptical chinny when the candle burst into flame. I was so impressed that I tried to convince a nearby reporter to cover the story on the TV. She was reluctant, but I was pumped; I launched into a song to convince her. To the tune of Sweets For My Sweet (Sugar For My Honey);
Motherfucking hoof
Lit the fucking candle
Come on and see it, everyone.
That motherfucking hoof
It lit that fucking candle
Now I’m gonna use it to mourn my mum
“This is for kids,” she warned – possibly in relation to the language and adult themes of grief. I asked if that would be a problem. “No, they’ll love it,” she replied. I said good, because the solemnity of the final line was important for the point I was making, and would lend emotional gravitas to a situation that was in danger of becoming whimsical and unscientific.
AND THEN I WOKE UP
Having made this blog post, I am officially the dullest cunt on the internet.