Posts Tagged ‘nightmareish’

The good, the bad, and the WTF is wrong with me?!

November 12, 2010

For those of you who are loyal readers, you already know that I have severely fucked up, twisted, and vivid dreams. The content of said dreams are typically reserved for the minds of the criminally insane, the drug overdosers, and the brain damaged (due to a cigarette-smoking birth defect). Sadly Fortunately, I don’t fit under any of these aforementioned categories. Yet still I have the weirdest dreams.

Last night’s dream was particularly long and detailed, so I’ll spare you the intricacies and instead just outline a few key points that I think were particularly interesting, both in the bad sense (i.e. “Oh my God, please don’t ever let that happen or exist in real life! Lock up your brain, you sick freak!”) and the totally awesome sense (i.e. “Aww, why can’t that be real? I’m jealous of you that you got to experience that and I never will.”).

Talking fish that can morph into humans. This one’s pretty self explanatory. Basically I had a fridge. And you know those little drawers at the bottom that are meant to keep vegetables fresh? Sorry, side-note: How is that supposed to work? What’s so special about the bottom of the fridge that keeps my fruits and veggies fresher than on a normal shelf? I don’t like banishing them to a drawer, because it makes them sad, which in turn makes me sad. Not cool. Anyway, back to my dream. So in those freshness drawers I had about forty live, swimming little fishies. And they were all pretty, as far as fish go. Like, not just ordinary like goldfish, rather, exotic-looking and flamboyant, with vibrant colours. And they could talk.

At one point I took a little tupperware-full of like, three or four, and when I got to the train station and opened up the little plastic container, they morphed into really good-looking females of the human species. Except one of them had a damaged fin, so her arm turned out to be in a cast, but whatevs.

Evil demon Chewbacca/bear/cat. This was almost traumatising enough to wake me up, but not quite. Basically, I was visiting some random dream-person in the hospital, and the evil demon Chewbacca/bear/cat jumped out from under the bed and started growling at me for no reason. None whatsoever! I didn’t taunt it. I didn’t step on its tail. I didn’t insult it. I wasn’t looking for a fight or anything. I was just minding my own business, visiting a sick person, and then I got growled at. But not just a normal growl. It was exactly as I said: a combination of Chewbacca’s weird-ass voice, a mother bear’s deafening roar when she’s defending her cubs, and Tommy’s low cat-growl when he fights other cats in the neighbourhood. It was so very frightening.

And then I must have made a sudden movement, or maybe the demon sensed my fear or something, because it proceeded to attack me and clamp onto my arm and not let go.

It was one of the worst experiences of my dream life, even worse than that time I was delivering pizzas to a creepy alien guy.

Awesome elevators that transport you in all directions at nearly warp speed. We were on our way to this party in a huge warehouse, and when we got to the elevator, I was expecting it to be normal, like every other elevator I’ve ever been on. As in, it only goes in two directions – up and down. But this elevator also went left and right, and it did a loopty-loop at one point! I didn’t really understand the physics behind it, because I didn’t feel the effects of g-force, but it was cool nonetheless. And, it took me to my desired level, which is all that really mattered.

Getting into a fight with a car-wash ghost because he confiscated your car and motorcycle. Different party, same warehouse setting. So I drove into the parking garage. I drive a Ford Edge in real life. It’s a little bulky, and is difficult to handle at slow speeds, but it’s cool. In my dream, I was driving the same car, maneuvering it around all kinds of twists and turns and corners. You know how parking garages can be. Anyway, I was informed that this garage used to be a car wash back in the day, but they tore it down and rebuilt it into thousands of parking spaces instead. I found what appeared to be a completely legal parking space (near the “elevator”) and got out of the car.

Then, a car wash ghost floated over to me and started talking about how I can’t park there because I’d be blocking other customers who want to come and have their cars cleaned. I tried explaining to the ghost that he was dead and this was no longer a car wash, but he was in denial and a physical fight ensued. A few minutes into the most useless fight in the history of violence (because no punch was ever landed, they just kind of passed through us), I decided to be the bigger person and just walk away.

Upon doing so, I noticed that my car was gone! Ghost guy laughed and said that he confiscated it due to the illegality of my parking. This made me very irate. But I was late for the party, so I let it go, and went upstairs.

Fast-forward to a few hours later, when I left the party. I got back down to the garage and asked ghost guy what he did with my car. He said he took it down the road to the Ford service centre, which was about two kilometers away. I definitely did not feel like walking that far. Luckily, I had my spare motorcycle parked one level above. So I went and got it, but I fucked something up and the clutch started smoking and then kind of just exploded off. I was sad.

I went back to ghost guy and asked if he could fix it, but he said he didn’t know how to. So I figured I’d walk the bike to Ford, pick up my car, and leave the bike there, for Ford to maybe fix in the morning. But when I went back to my bike, it too was gone! Why does this keep happening to me?! My blood boiled with anger. In a forced-calm voice I asked the ghost what he did with it and he said he sent it to Saudi Arabia.

Cake that tastes like weird non-cakey things. I was at the hospital again, celebrating the life of someone. There was cake. It didn’t taste like chocolate or vanilla or marble or strawberry or walnut or carrot or cheese. It tasted like chicken. Grilled chicken. There was another cake that tasted like mashed potatoes and peas. And another cake that tasted like barbecued spare ribs. And finally, a spaghetti-flavoured cake. Yes, they were all exact replicas of the original taste. But because of the cake-like consistency, I was slightly grossed out. However, to be polite, I had a small sliver of the ribs-cake.

And yeah, that’s pretty much it. I mean there was a lot more to it, but I’m not going to delve any further into my insanities. Bear in mind though, that all of the situations that I discussed above happened over the course of a single dream. So I don’t know if that means I need a brain transplant, or if it means that I’m actually a genius mastermind.

I’d like to think the latter.

I don’t like this game.

July 10, 2010

Okay so I’ve been waiting for that Plinky sonofabitch to give me a prompt that I feel like responding to, but alas. Plinky has failed me by asking boring things like “What’s the most confusing part of life?” “What book could you read over and over?” “How much wood can a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” Just kidding about that last one. (Everyone knows the answer is three cords.)

Anywho, I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands by telling you a wonderfully gruesome tale, combining the criminal genius of the Saw saga with the war-like emotion of District 9 and the unnecessary amount of killing of any Holocaust movie. This is a true story. That took place in my brain. While I was sleeping.

Once upon a time, in an abandoned warehouse in the slums of a metropolitan city, there were five people fighting for life. Two of them were bound to each other, sitting back-to-back in uncomfortable school chairs. Their names are forgotten unimportant. One of them was in the loft, with a bag over her head and explosives around her feet. Another one was strapped to a gurney, immobile, in a tank that was slowly filling up with water. And the last one, the heroine of the story (if such a character exists), just woke up in a pit full of worms.

Our heroine let out a blood-curdling scream as she struggled to get out of that pit. But she couldn’t find any edges to pull herself out. And come to think of it, the walls of the pit stretched endlessly upward. She was literally in a bottomless pit. With worms. She sank down into the gooey mess, clutching her forehead in agony, the tears streaming down her face. How the fuck was she going to get out of here? That’s when she noticed it: a tiny message written on the wall opposite her in what appeared to be blood, but was probably just a red pen. You can’t always move up in life. Sometimes you have to bring yourself down to their level. Oh, the beautiful metaphoric imagery that only a psycho serial killer can think up. She looked around. The worms had stopped moving. She started pacing. The worms started moving again. She stopped pacing. The worms stopped moving. Wait, what? She knelt down in the wormy goo, and took up a handful of the limp creatures. She picked one out, sniffed it a few times, and popped it in her mouth. “Gummy worms!” she exclaimed. Our heroine loves gummy worms. Then she remembered the message on the wall and figured that she had to eat her way to the bottom of the pit in order to escape. Which is exactly what she did.

The two guys were sitting in what appeared to be a history classroom. Blindfolded, gagged, with their hands behind their backs and their ankles tied to the legs of the chairs, they were in a pretty helpless situation. What they didn’t know was that the heroine of our tale was about to kick the door down to rescue them, but in-so-doing, she would also ignite the petrol that was poured all over the floor of the room. Oops.

Quickly, she darted through the flames and to the screaming bodies. She desperately tried to untie them, but the guy who made the knots must’ve been a sailing enthusiast or something, because they were elaborate and strong. So instead, she grabbed the chairs, and started dragging them to the door. She stopped suddenly, because she saw another message on the wall. One is a serial rapist, the other a pediatric surgeon. But the rapist has a family who loves him and the surgeon is all alone in this world. You can only save one, so who’s it going to be? Unsure of how to proceed, she then noticed that each of the guys had a “Hello my name is…” sticker on their shirts. “Hello my name is… rapist.” and “Hello my name is… surgeon.” She decided that the killer probably reversed the two, because killers are typically sneaky like that, and decided to save the rapist, leaving the surgeon to burn alive. Once safely in the hallway, she untied the victim, who immediately took her into his arms and started crying. “Oh my God, thank you so much. I have a wife and child who love me. I have a hospital of children who need me. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you saved that other guy instead.” She smiled inwardly, proud of herself for having watched enough scary movies to know when to switch shit up. “Don’t worry doctor,” she said in a cheesy, scene-transitioning voice, “I’m sure he got what he deserved.”

Somewhere in the loft of the warehouse, the girl with the bag over her head was kicking and screaming. So hard, in fact, that she tripped some sort of wire and heard that unmistakeable sound of a pin being released from a chamber and thus starting a ticker to count down from 05:00. She didn’t know how much time she had (because that bag was really dark), but she assumed that once the ticking stopped, the bombs would detonate, and she would be blown into a million pieces.

At this point of the story, I woke up. I went downstairs to get some water, stopped by the toilet for a quick pee, and went back to sleep.

Suddenly everyone was running. All the nurses, the Egyptian tailor, those two guys (the rapist and the surgeon), everyone. They made it to the end of the hall and found an emergency exit door, which I quickly slammed open. Outside, we found ourselves in a grassy area with benches and trees and sort of resembled a park or the outside of a university dorm complex. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, a little boy was playing frisbee with his dog, a butterfly landed on a dandelion – everything was oddly perfect.

“Hey has anyone seen my sister?” I asked. I was doing a head count and noticed that everyone was there except Ten. Weird. I could’ve sworn I saved her from the explosive-ridden loft several hours ago. But as I looked around, everything became quick and flash-backy, like the end of a Quentin Tarantino film, when everything comes together and makes sense. The warehouse, the two guys, the chick with lung cancer, the loft, the bomb, the chairs, the scene where I was in the worm pit, the history classroom, the gurney, everything was beginning to make sense. The killer wanted me to save them. He wanted me to bring everyone out into the open. He wanted me to believe I saved Ten when in fact I hadn’t. Or had I? Was this a trap? Or is this right and the trap is back in the building behind the door? Was she alive? Was she dead? Was she in on it? Am I the killer? Am I dead?!

The camera then slowly panned across my face, showing the confusion from all angles. Flashback scenes were intermittently thrown in and the theme music that ties everything together leapt into a crescendo. And then I woke up.

Disclaimer: 1.) You must keep in mind that due to the burst of reality mid-way through the dream, I couldn’t pick up exactly from where I left off. Hence, discrepancies amongst the cast and scenes. 2.) I myself don’t understand the ending, so don’t ask me what it means or what happened. 3.) The first part of the dream took place in third-person, and I didn’t realise I was the heroine until the second part of the dream, which was in first-person. 4.) I wish I was in a pit of gummy worms in real life. 5.) I fully understand that Saw is not a Tarantino film, but I felt that clip was appropriate.

Decapitating Elmo

March 16, 2010

I was at a water park slash playboy mansion and didn’t really know anyone there. Somehow though, I made friends with this one guy, and over the course of the dream I came to trust him. He had a friendly face and a soothing voice and was just an average guy. Or so I thought.

At one point, he took me aside and explained to me that he was actually the lead killer of a cult that kills Sesame Street characters, and Elmo was the last on their list. I dunno, apparently Elmo was the baddest mofo of the bunch. Who’d’ve thought? Anyway, Elmo was at the party somewhere, and it was our mission to find and destroy him.

My nameless friend then persuaded me to nearly sever my head off my shoulders, as an initiation ritual to prove that I was true to the cult. I don’t know why I trusted this guy and fell for his evil ploy, but I did. So I actually sat there and allowed him to slice the back of my neck about two centimeters deep, from ear to ear. It wasn’t as pleasant as it sounds.

So I’m lying there, nearly decapitated, while he goes over the plan: I go look for Elmo, buy him a drink (which I will obviously poison with the date rape drug), and bring his unconscious body back to my friend. Together, we will tie him up, wait for him to wake up, and then torture him into giving us information and eventually decapitate him. Decapitation is the signature killing style of my new cult, in case you didn’t get that yet.

Off I went, in search of Elmo. On my way, I encountered many drunken naked people, and I went on a few water slides as well. But my time was running out, because with each step I took, I got weaker and weaker. I was losing so much blood from my neck that it filled the entire hood of my hoodie. Gross. But I had to continue.

After a ride that somewhat resembled Jumeirah Sceira, I rounded a corner and found Elmo, with a heroin needle still in his arm. He was on the verge of unconsciousness. But when he saw me and my neck, he flipped the fuck out. “What has he done to you? Don’t listen to anything he says, it’s all a trick! Get away from me! Run while you still can! Goooo!” Elmo’s voice already creeps me out, but when he’s tripping balls on heroin, it’s even creepier. So I ignored him, and gave him some laced water, which immediately made him pass out. I then schlepped his body all the way back to the base where my friend was waiting.

“Well done, I’m proud of you,” he said to me with an evil half-grin and a killer look in his eye, “Now help me carry him upstairs.” I could no longer stand on my own two feet though. So my friend ended up carrying me on one shoulder and Elmo on the other.

Just as we were about to enter the backdoor of the house, this old red Jeep Grand Cherokee pulls up in the driveway at the front of the house, and the driver does a double take and then immediately slams on the brakes and jumps out of the car, running in our direction. “Fuck, they found us!” my friend said, and quickened his pace up the patio stairs, through the door, and into a closet, which he then locked and bolted.

The dude from the Jeep caught up to us not long after, and started pounding on the door. “Open up, I know you’re in there!” No shit dude, who else would be in a locked closet? Anyway, I asked my friend why this random douschebag was after us, and he informed me that the guy was the dad of one of the little girls he killed a few weeks ago. Apparently, my friend sent a huge bag of poisoned German candy to a fourth grade class, killing everyone who ate a piece (which was, in fact, everyone). And now the dad is rightfully pissed.

“Ron Ron! Open up the door, it’s me, your beautiful princess Ten Ten!” my sister was saying from the other side of the door. “Come on, just unlock it and come out, you won’t get in trouble. Neither will Elmo. Only the bad guy who’s in there with you. Trust me!”

“Don’t trust her, you fool. That’s not really your sister!” my friend was telling me from inside the closet. “It’s a trap! Don’t open the door!” But I felt so bad, and I didn’t want Ten to think I didn’t trust her, so I opened the door. And it was a trap. My sister wasn’t there, it was the douschebag Jeep-driving dad of the dead girl, toting a huge ass rifle. “It’s payback, bitch.” he said in his normal tough-guy voice. And then he cocked the gun and I woke up.


January 26, 2010

Well okay, not really news per say, but new-ish stuff nonetheless.

As you may or may not have noticed, I’ve decided to revamp the header, changing the previously cutesy picture into a creepy one that’ll probably give you nightmares. Let me know if I succeed.

February is just around the corner! So be expecting my birthday wish list soon.

I just got a phone call from Tatjana at work, saying that a “mysterious parcel” is waiting for me in her office. This means two things. Firstly, the postal service seems to work just fine, so none of you should have a problem getting me the gifts I ask for on the aforementioned wish list. And secondly, I’m going to have a lakritz fest tomorrow, which excites me.

I’m sick again. Not like, SARS sick, but I think some sort of influenza-bronchitis medley. I feel like committing seppuku.

The new semester has officially begun. Again I can only take two subjects due to my hellish work requirements, and those subjects are ECON111 (I’m finally doing micro!) and MARK217, which I reckon is going to be a fairly boring consumer behaviour course. Managing the two should be fairly feasible, because one is kinda mathy and the other’s kinda theory. So I think my brain can cope.

I haven’t been having super exciting dreams recently. On the contrary, they’ve been rather dull and life-like. In yesterday’s dream I got lost in a building for like, an hour. And it wasn’t even a trippy building, it was just a standard boring apartment building. The only thing dreamy about it was that the stairwell went on forever and never actually took me one floor down (hence the reason why I got lost). Eventually I broke through the window and ended up outside Block 3 in the Gardens. So it was alright.

I’m slightly hungry, so I’m going to head over to the kitchen now and see what happens.

Pre-speech jitters

June 10, 2009
I was standing at the podium,
looking out at everyone.
Seeing some familiar faces;
different colours,
different races,
origins from different places,
and suddenly my mind erases
everything I planned to preach.
There goes my entire speech.
The crowd looks up with expectation;
I stare back with hesitation.
Start to sweat,
I start to choke,
Is this God’s form of some sick joke?
I try to look back in my mind,
I’m on pause, let’s rewind
and try to find
another kind
of some sick rhyme
to pass the time,
before the sea grows mean and restless
and pulls me in without a life-vest.
Suddenly, I see a light
amongst the shadows of my plight.
Although it’s slight,
I think I’m right,
So I struggle and I fight
to pull the message out the bottle
and spit it out in full throttle.
The expressions of the crowd
were still eager,
still loud.
And I was proud
that I had found
The words I hadn’t written down.
I make a mental note of them, 
And then I start…

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