Give up for TV's subconscious
Mar. 3rd, 2008 12:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trinityvixenI've lost track of how many times I've issued the superlative about one dream or another being the worst, weirdest, most f'ed up I've ever had. I think I have a new winner.
Um, don't click unless you've some stomach for cruelty to cute things.
The dream involved a litter of Dachshund puppies old enough to prance around but still very small. They were playing in my apartment nearest the entryway that opens out towards the bedrooms. I was looking at them and I was filled with heart attack-inducing fear and loathing. They were infected with Aliens (as in, Sigourney Weaver, acid-blood, eat-your-guts-and-puke-em-out ALIENS). Pretty soon, they were all going to die and aliens were going to pop out of them and the world would be in some serious shit.
I had to kill these puppies. And dream-Me reacted about as well as real-Me does when you surprise her with a zombie impression in a dark room. I stomped on the things. I jumped up and down and screamed and cried and feared for my life as I KILLED PUPPIES. Some tiny, full-formed aliens (not the chest-bursters, but the adult forms on the miniature) were suddenly in the mix and I stomped all over them, too. They went squish and were full of green stuff.
But one got away, and for some reason, once it was out of the stomping circle, I couldn't kill it. Then Matt Damon showed up. Well, most of him did. Time sorta got fuzzy and it transpired that some evil corporation promised to take care of the alien (i.e. kill it) if he could get it to them (of course, I was skeptical, so was Matt Damon). Anyway, Matt agreed to go into surgery and have the action-figure-sized alien put into his chest before going into cold storage himself and then being sent away. At this point, there wasn't anything left of him from about where his diaphragm would be down. He ended midway through the upper arm. It was weird. Also, why the F would you put an alien into your chest for transport and trust someone to take it out again?
Who cares! The real take-home from this was: I AM A MONSTER, I KILL PUPPIES IN MY SLEEP.
I also had a dream where both I and some random dude got chased out of a park on a hill by giant tentacles of dirt that rose up and tried to grab at us. He got nabbed, but I managed to get out of the park by walking on my hands and crawling (like sandworms in Dune, they would only attack at footsteps--mine, specifically).
Later, I had gone to my house and was hiding out on the third floor when my mother handed me a box from my paternal grandfather. There were notes and messages inside to me that instructed me as to why the tentacles went for me (obviously, I was the chosen one; the chosen one of what I can't remember). There were also Ye Olde Tyme pictures of me as a baby and this old guy with a white, walrus-like mustache who was supposed to be my paternal grandfather. He was letting me know that he always loved me and trying to prepare me for the trials ahead.
Not knowing the context, my mother just looked at the picture of me on my grandfather's leg and said, "Don't you feel lucky that he cared so much to leave that for you? Your siblings don't have anything like that." She said this as a reproach to my flipping the fuck out that he was sending me message about supernatural dealings that didn't seem to concern the rest of my family at all; because, hey, at least he cared enough to have it for me. Forget that, you know, my paternal grandfather was born at least two decades too late to be turn-of-the-century in his clothes/facial hair fashions. Or that he died before my parents even met, let alone before I was born.
I think I shall refer to myself as the chosen one from now on. Better than puppy-killer.
Um, don't click unless you've some stomach for cruelty to cute things.
The dream involved a litter of Dachshund puppies old enough to prance around but still very small. They were playing in my apartment nearest the entryway that opens out towards the bedrooms. I was looking at them and I was filled with heart attack-inducing fear and loathing. They were infected with Aliens (as in, Sigourney Weaver, acid-blood, eat-your-guts-and-puke-em-out ALIENS). Pretty soon, they were all going to die and aliens were going to pop out of them and the world would be in some serious shit.
I had to kill these puppies. And dream-Me reacted about as well as real-Me does when you surprise her with a zombie impression in a dark room. I stomped on the things. I jumped up and down and screamed and cried and feared for my life as I KILLED PUPPIES. Some tiny, full-formed aliens (not the chest-bursters, but the adult forms on the miniature) were suddenly in the mix and I stomped all over them, too. They went squish and were full of green stuff.
But one got away, and for some reason, once it was out of the stomping circle, I couldn't kill it. Then Matt Damon showed up. Well, most of him did. Time sorta got fuzzy and it transpired that some evil corporation promised to take care of the alien (i.e. kill it) if he could get it to them (of course, I was skeptical, so was Matt Damon). Anyway, Matt agreed to go into surgery and have the action-figure-sized alien put into his chest before going into cold storage himself and then being sent away. At this point, there wasn't anything left of him from about where his diaphragm would be down. He ended midway through the upper arm. It was weird. Also, why the F would you put an alien into your chest for transport and trust someone to take it out again?
Who cares! The real take-home from this was: I AM A MONSTER, I KILL PUPPIES IN MY SLEEP.
I also had a dream where both I and some random dude got chased out of a park on a hill by giant tentacles of dirt that rose up and tried to grab at us. He got nabbed, but I managed to get out of the park by walking on my hands and crawling (like sandworms in Dune, they would only attack at footsteps--mine, specifically).
Later, I had gone to my house and was hiding out on the third floor when my mother handed me a box from my paternal grandfather. There were notes and messages inside to me that instructed me as to why the tentacles went for me (obviously, I was the chosen one; the chosen one of what I can't remember). There were also Ye Olde Tyme pictures of me as a baby and this old guy with a white, walrus-like mustache who was supposed to be my paternal grandfather. He was letting me know that he always loved me and trying to prepare me for the trials ahead.
Not knowing the context, my mother just looked at the picture of me on my grandfather's leg and said, "Don't you feel lucky that he cared so much to leave that for you? Your siblings don't have anything like that." She said this as a reproach to my flipping the fuck out that he was sending me message about supernatural dealings that didn't seem to concern the rest of my family at all; because, hey, at least he cared enough to have it for me. Forget that, you know, my paternal grandfather was born at least two decades too late to be turn-of-the-century in his clothes/facial hair fashions. Or that he died before my parents even met, let alone before I was born.
I think I shall refer to myself as the chosen one from now on. Better than puppy-killer.
