Bad Dream?

I had an incredibly horrifying dream and I have the choice of trying to forget about it the old fashioned way or to vomit/bleed the words onto paper and hope that through time they’ll just become word-skeletons of what used to be. Maybe even comical like, I dunno, how an abusive father grows into an old man with a sense of humor.


In this dream, no one died. And in this dream no one was eaten alive by a shark. And in this dream there was no fire and no dead bodies. In this dream there was no gang rape – no rape – no sex. (I lost you, didn’t I?)


In this dream there was swimming and post-swimming wet hair and changing into dry clothes in someone’s bathroom. Someone hiding in the closet watching me change through the keyhole, and I think I knew who it was. That wasn’t the scary part. My jeans were way too tight around my bloated waist and I don’t think he got the better end of the deal. That wasn’t the scary part.


Through the corner of my eye in a Hitchcock-Norman-Bates-mother-bedroom-immediate-closeup sort of way was the reflection of my back in the mirror opposite from the mirror I was facing. I lifted my arms to put on my shirt – my navy blue polo shirt – and I felt weakness in my left arm. So much were I could see which rubberband muscles were required to generate what SHOULD be a simple arm movement. These muscles were working so hard that my spine had to disconnect from the bone and had to shift over and push out this long skewer of red meat bumps against my skin. It was a live shish kebab skewer of Anoush mean unable to stay in place because my hinges couldn’t work the way they were supposed to. Also, It meant that body parts were sticking out when they shouldn’t be. Not in the sexy way, either – in the “gross/wrong” way.


I screamed for my mother. I haven’t had a scream-for-my-mother dream in a LONG time. I ran downstares now naked past people I didn’t know saying, “it’s ok, I’m dying.” Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, mom. Look what happens when I do this.


She pushed it back in and said. “There. It’s not a big deal.”


I was still horrified. I didn’t feel better. I am mind bone and meat and I was chipping away everywhere. Plus it disgusted me. I’m still alive, great. But I’m disgusting – and not just “picking your nose” disgusting – I’M DISGUSTING.


Plus I hate seeing bumps. I hate the word, Clump, or Cluster, or Blister, or Bud when it’s not someone’s name. I HATE BUD WHEN IT’S NOT SOMEONE’S NAME.


I prefer points. Angles. Dramatic shark fin magic.



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