Where Occam’s Razor fails..

23 Dec

I awoke from a nightmare with an aching head and dry throat (having physically gagged during the dream).

My immediate reaction? Aliens were experimenting on me! Then realising that wasn’t entirely possible, I swallowed a spider! Then realising I’ve never seen a bug or insect of any type in this apartment ever, I’m the only 31 year old who still has nightmares and misconstrues awkward neck placement and amnesia when it comes to drinking water for alien experimentation.

Think that’s an overreaction? One time, many years ago, I woke after firecrackers went off over the road and my first thought was “Oh my God! It’s the Rapture!

I really suck at Occam’s Razor. Especially when woken suddenly.

Mind you, content wise, I do believe some snaps should come my way for how politically-motivated, disturbingly sexual and intricate my dreams are. And just a little strange in their editing.

I turn up to work. It looks like a department store modified ever so slightly to appear like an office. I am aware it is my workplace and dazzled by the excitement and diversions on display. There are counters of doohickeys and gizmos that just beg to be tinkered and lusted. After running around, I entreated my workmates (who were all dressed in grey boiler suits) that it was all an illusion. It wasn’t work! It was a store! We weren’t working but forced to become shoppers under an illusion of productivity (naturally, I must be ever so slightly miffed about buying Christmas presents).

Then there was the usual chase scene that all my dreams feature (though this time set in a suitably grey and slimy labyrinthine multiplex car park and series of elevators that was also meant to be my workplace) before chancing upon my female workmates (who looked nothing like my female colleagues) onto whom I collapsed into sapphic kisses and embraces.

Then, for some reason, another workmate had for some reason or another transgressed some workplace rule and had to be punished. Though the reason and identity of the man escapes me, I was forced to watch them (by the Effusive Complimenter, no less, in an Orwellian nurses’ outfit) on the other side of a glass screen. There was an attempt at forced empathy as I witnessed the punished strapped to a chair bound by yellow devices as they fastened a yellow sponge-shaped box to my head. Then the headache began in earnest as my work mate’s pain was delivered. My head snapped back and my throat felt dry and invaded, an exact memory of when doctors’ once rammed a gigantic tube in my mouth to stop it collapsing after an overdose. I was physically gagging and rasping for anything to ease what was feeling like the driest of throats.

After a short moment of pain, the imagery oscillated from our mutual torture and an array of pneumatically-enhanced women. Whatever part of the brain is responsible for lucid dreaming began to go haywire and begged me to wake and literally drag myself from the dream.

So, um….hey, meet my inappropriately erotic and grim subconscious!

Anyone care to share an interpretation? If you’re feeling shy, email me via peskyfeminist[at]gmail.com.

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