Went out with a buddy last night, had Turkish food, and saw “Michael Clayton” which was a surprisingly good movie, despite the fact that I never watch legal thrillers. Go figure.
And last night, what did I dream about? George Clooney? Paperwork? Environmental activism? Noooo. Instead, the brief discussion of cannibalism over dinner* spawned a complicated plotline about being married to a cannibalistic duke who was eating the local peasantry, and attempting to stop him from eating my son, all of which was told in the form of a confession to a good-looking slave.
Then, for awhile, I was the good-looking–and male–slave, who it turned out was from another planet. And also a dragon.** The dragons had been locked in an epic war with the pterodactyls for millenia, and in the end, the last female dragon and the last living pterodactyl had been frozen together in suspended animation, in the act of killing one another, and nobody dared to wake them up, because they didn’t know if they could separate them in time, with the end result that there were a handful of male dragons moping around and the species wasn’t goin’ anywhere. I finally unfroze the pair–there was a complicated and very tactile part of the dream involving running my hands over these strange pebbled hides, trying to find the correct stone to pry out to wake them up. The female dragon died, the elderly and now rather philosophical pterodactyl lived, and went off to play chess with the oldest dragon.
There were all sorts of places the dream could have gone after that, some of them logical, but for no apparent reason, I found myself as Batman, complaining to Superman that we were overbudget, and did he really think his crappy little reporter’s salary was going to cover all those expenses? Superman, miffed, sent Alfred out for some coal, compressed it into diamonds, and handed them over, saying “Happy now?” The one damn time I’ll ever dream I’m Batman, and do I kick ass? Do I save the city? Do I at least make out with Huntress? No. I complain to Superman about the budget. Feh.
Even this is an improvement over night before last, when I spent the whole dream trying desperately to teach a sex ed class, and woke cursing the name of my ninth grade health teacher with all the fervor of someone who has just spent their sleeping hours explaining the progression of syphilis.
Effexor, man. That is some wacky shit.
*Everybody discusses cannibalism over dinner, right?
**The cliches, they burn. My brain has NO taste.