To preface this, I must say that the past two evenings, I have eaten spaghetti with mushroom-tomato pasta sauce and a salad with balsamic vinagrette for dinner.
That said, I’ve been having strange dreams.
Monday night, I dreamed that many of my friends were gathered at the home of one specific friend. My Spanish host parents, Marian and Angel, were there-but they had suddenly become the parents of my friends, Kyle and Alex. But Alex wasn’t there. Suddenly, he arrived-with two piercings in his eyebrow that have never been there in real life. Marian and Angel yelled at him while the rest of us went to play Apples to Apples.
I told another friend that if I told his twin about this dream, his twin would probably yell at him. She agreed with me.
The following night (last night) I dreamed that I was in a bed with an old dying woman. To be precise, I was in a bed with the title character from William Faulkner’s A Rose for Emily. Yes, I was dreaming about being in bed with a mentally disturbed woman from a short story written by an author I hate. Suffice it to say, it was a very weird dream.
Why can’t I dream about Hugh Jackman or Brad Pitt like a normal person?