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...over-educated and under-experienced, or so they say...

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Sigmund Sandman

If I were a man, I'd probably romanticize this and say something more seductive and sultry like, "Sleep is an illusive mistress," or something equally sappy, but I'm not.  Because I'm a woman, I'm more inclined to say, "The Sandman is a sick twisted bastard and I want a divorce."

I'm no stranger to insomnia.  I suffer from it here and there for two to three weeks at a time, but most of the time I just get up and start writing or reading or play Spider Solitaire until I either fall back to sleep (usually about an hour before my alarm goes off) or until it's time to start my day and I fill myself with some very stout coffee to make it through.  But what I've been going through for the past four nights is not what I would consider insomnia.  It's more like some sort of subconscious torment instigated by some distorted Sandman version of Sigmund Freud because I've woken up multiple times a night for the past four nights by what some might consider Freud's psychoanalytic playground.  (and I really dislike Freud and his psychoanalytic cohorts)

I'm not kidding.  I woke up at four this morning because I had this dream that I went to acquire an easement from a property owner that answered the door in some fuzzy purple leggings, a leotard, and a tutu.  And yes, he had makeup on and a string of pearls, but his masculine voice and pectoralis majors made it very clear he was a man.  And similar to the time I was greeted at the front door by a man in his tighty whiteys, I played it off like I didn't notice and just started to talk business with him.  All I needed the guy to do was sign the easement so I could notarize the thing and go back to the office and tell my story and make fun of him forever and ever. And as I was explaining the document to him and why I needed him to sign it, he kept staring at my cleavage, and I couldn't decide if he was staring at it because he liked it or because he wished it were his.  And just as he invited me into his kitchen so he could sign the document, I found myself surrounded by what appeared to be the Cirque Du Soleil troupe and I suddenly felt like the girl in the Labyrinth and I was about to meet the Goblin King.   And just as I handed him the pen to sign the document, he handed me a garden hose and told me to drink some water.  So I did.  I drank water from the dude's garden hose in the middle of his damn kitchen.  And as I was drinking, the Cirque Du Soleil freaks started chanting like a bunch of frat boys: FROM THE HOSE!  FROM THE HOSE!  FROM THE HOSE!  At that point, I made myself wake up.

The hell was that?!  Who dreams that?!  With a bunch of French Circus Freaks?!?!  The hell is going on in my subconscious?!  (And please... don't even bring up the drinking from the stupid hose thing.  I've rolled that one over in my mind all day and there is no way around what Freud would have to say about that.)  And even if you have some kind of dream imagery book and you were going to try and help me out here, I'm pretty sure "man in leggings and tutu" isn't in there.  Sure, if I'd had that dream where all your teeth shatter, or that crazy flying dream where you're having the best time ever until you figure out you have no clue how to land, you could look it up and pontificate about this or that and try to win me over with your metaphysical insight, but... French Circus Freaks throwing a party in Tutu Man's kitchen while I'm acquiring a side lot easement?  Yeah... good luck with that.

All I can say is that the Sandman must've gotten bored with his usual victims and he made his way over to my house.  Awesome.  Thanks Sandman.  I've been waiting for you.

And there's a reason why Metallica wrote a creepy song about that guy, because he'd probably been jacking up their subconscious minds since childhood.  How else could they come up with something like MASTER OF PUPPETS?  And they probably destroyed Napster way back when because Sandman told them to!  They sold out to His Royal Creepiness!  They owe him their souls, and they made a down payment with a song of homage to  his creepy tripped out nightmare glory! (at least they finally cut their hair)

From this point on we must all stop lying to our children!  Sandman is NOT this sweet little magic man that drops magical sleepy dust particles over your eyes so you can fly away to dream land with butterflies and lush green gardens.  He comes to your room at night with some distorted magical version of Ambien and torments you with evil clowns and contortionists in frog costumes!  And he forces you to lie to yourself and call it insomnia because he knows there is no way you'll go to work and tell your assistant that you're late because of lost sleep over a nightmare about drinking from some Tutu Man's garden hose in his kitchen, but... Don't do it!  Don't lie to yourself!  IT'S NOT INSOMNIA!  Go buy some garlic and hang it over your bed or something because the Sandman is out to get you!

Believe me...  I know insomnia, and this ain't it.  My entire day was jacked today by visions of men in tights with garden hoses.

So wrong... so very wrong...

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