My dreams are fucking annoying

I should really consider what I drink before I sleep… I mean, I do enjoy remembering my dreams, but sometimes I’m appalled at how transparent my psyche is when I remember what it does in my conscious absence.

Oh, it would be nice if it was something like a busty, curvy girl riding on my stiff pole… It would be nice if there was anything remotely sexual about my dreams, but lately it seems my dreams have been telling me, “You, sir, are completely out of control.”

Take the dream my brain was painting this morning… I was in some sort of clinic. I had some sort of incurable disease. The only option was euthanasia. It was supposed to be some sort of big needle at the base of my brain or the top of my spine, whichever makes you squirm more (base of the brain makes my scalp crawl…)

It was all very clinical, nothing really to think about other than timing, and then I realized I hadn’t told Fiona that I was going to be killed at the clinic that day, and that I should really tell her before they stuck that needle into my cerebrospinal fluid. (Yeah, I have pretentious dreams…) I remember going through the discharge process and commenting, “I’ll bet you don’t do this very often,” because, well, usually their patients are dead at discharge.

To me it’s so fucking transparent because, well,it’s my psyche. Although I understand many people can’t figure out what the hell their brains are trying to whisper in their sleep.

Look, I have to get away. I’ve been with this woman for years, and the herpes incident aside, the only way I’m going to get away is if I move. And if I move it’s a form of suicide. I’ll have to abandon my company (to a point), the town I’ve lived in for 18 years, and a lifestyle that not only have I become accustomed to, but that defines me in many ways.

But to stay is a form of suicide, or maybe that’s the incurable disease. Maybe love is the incurable disease… I do love her, and I love the life we have together. But she’s dangerous. Her flaws are often her good points — her hedonistic ways, her distaste for poorly presented people, places or things (poorly presented “nouns” I suppose)… Her narcissism and self loathing almost cancel each other out, but it’s more like a matter/anti-matter collision which can destroy the universe around her.

And I’m part of that universe, constantly buffeted by the release of energies as her diametrically opposed ideals and ideas collide.

So, I know I have to go. I’m drawn to her, and simply “moving out” doesn’t solve the “but you’re radioactive… warm and glowing but carcinogenic” problem. And leaving is like sticking a needle in the base of my brain and departing this plane of existence.

Even in my sleep I can’t get any rest…

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