Personal Crap

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Meaford, ON, Canada
A big lover of all types of media, from Movies to Video Games, Books to Music, Television to Stage.



Okay, here's the deal: Blogger has been having problems with their counters as of late, specifically with those blogs marked as having adult content. Now, this particular blog was marked as adult content since it is written as a train of thought, including all the rotten language that flows through my head constantly :) As a result, I marked it adult for that, not for having pornographic photos all over the place. So, simply put, be aware that there is language on this blogsite, and if you are offended don't bother complaining because I wrote this so that you'd know it before reading, and it is your fault if you don't believe me and decide to possibly get offended anyway. If language of a vulgar nature might make you upset, go read something by Disney.


A Dream Waking Me After Less Than 2 Hours Of Sleep

I have written this from the point of view of Andi, my wife, being the one who reads it, so when I say things like 'you said' or 'you did,' I specifically mean her.  When I use the phrase 'our house,' it refers directly to 40 Harley.  'Our' also refers to Andi and I.  This is what I'm doing to myself while I'm asleep; and people wonder why I wake up at 39 going on 40 with a thumb wedged firmly in my mouth most mornings...dream shit like this yourself, and tell me how you'd react.

The dream was very intense.  Most dreams you have when you are asleep are double the length of the previous dream, as that's how the cycles go.  First you have 'dreamlets,' of maybe 5 seconds, then 10 seconds, then 20 seconds, then 40 seconds.  1 minute 20, 2 minutes 40, 5 minutes 20, 10 minutes 40, 21 minutes 20 and this is the one I think I had based on how long it took to fall asleep and the fact that there is time in between the dreams as well.  So the torture I am about to describe, though not seemingly torture necessarily in your eyes, probably lasted for 20+ minutes for me.  Reading this from your individual standpoints will probably make this dream seem boring and dull, but to myself it was fraught with anger, rage, and impotent blame and hatred.

It started in a version of our house.  I had been asleep for a nap, and I came downstairs to the main floor to have you telling me you had done some work downstairs.  The context of the work was mentioned, but is the only thin I can't remember, so it probably wasn't important.  I went down the basement stairs to note a few things:  First, the basement had been finished.  Second, the ceiling, floor and walls were all white (maybe in prep for final paint and flooring choices, but that wasn't discussed).  Third, the boxes you'd expect to see upon coming down were gone, and the room was well lit as though by florescent tubes across the ceiling, though I don't recall looking up to confirm said tube lighting.  I remember being shocked at how much work you had done while i was asleep, and asked where the other boxes were.  You said upstairs in the bedroom, and at this point I was now standing upstairs in the bedroom, only it was now the front room of the house at Eastwood.  I saw the boxes, then was again magically downstairs talking to you in the basement again (this happened with the snap back and forth of a camera clip during a movie, like an establishing shot of the other room to confirm what had been said by you).  You then were showing me how you organized the boxes, and I noticed that in the ceiling, as though the room hadn't had the ceiling finished, there were two boxes of hamster food, one opened.  I pulled the opened one down, found a garbage bag you had available (not to be confused with another bag that wasn't garbage, and even these bags were white) and threw it out.  I then got the other box, and noticed the ceiling (finished though with rafters or beams BELOW the finished ceiling, so weird) had been discoloured in the shape of the boxes, as though they had been put up there and somehow the contact with the ceiling discoloured the paint or something.  I also had noticed that where the boxes had originally been towards the front of the house the floor had been discoloured by the sitting boxes as though the floor had been done UNDER the boxes, which had been moved later.  All told, there was about 1/3 of the boxes we have down there now and none of the furniture or electronic stuff that is there now.

Here is where the dream starts to change.  While talking to you about the hamster food and compaining about the previous owners, we heard footsteps from above us.  It wasn't Scott, as we never for even a second considered it was his steps.  I think I was naked from my nap, so I grabbed a towel to hold around myself as we went to investigate.  We approached the stairway and you called out 'Hello.'  As we climbed the stairs (you went first, how chivalrous of me) we heard a voice say 'Hi.'  It was Wayne, a driver for my mother's bus company RoadBusters.  The main floor had now become that of Eastwood, as had the entire house at this point, and we came out of the stairway at the back of the kitchen to see Wayne in the front hall coming towards us with the door open behind him.  I came up to him and said this wasn't my mother's house, and under no circumstances was he to enter without knocking, ever, ever.  As I said this, in walks my mother and Peter.  My mother began the argument she had when Lillian and I were at Eastwood after Warren left, that this was still her house so she could come and go as she pleased.  I argued that I was a tenant, I was paying rent, and as such I had certain rights which included not to be barged in upon unannounced.  She agreed and was about to argue more when I said "How about if we were having sex in the front room and you walked in, I don't think that would be fair to us to have to suffer that indignity."  I then indicated the towel I was wearing, and though the sex part hadn't occurred, I said "Case in point."  I then went upstairs to change.

Upon getting to the front bedroom, I noticed the boxes had been piled neatly away from the door and over near the window overlooking the street.  This neatness was in direct contrast to how the room looked the last time I was at Eastwood after the thieves had broken in and ransacked the place.  I removed the towel to find I was wearing shorts after all, and then proceeded to head back to the landing and the top of the flight of stairs, when I bumped literally into Peter who was being his usual asshole self.  He said something along the lines of it's a good thing I was wearing shoes because he was going to hit me on the bottom of my feet with a 2x4.  No idea where that came from, but not untypical.  I got to the bottom of the stairs yelling up at him saying at least I didn't sit on my fat ass all day long, making one phone call a day because that was the extent of my duties that I could handle like him.  This was likely referring to the period of time that I ran their shitty little bus company without their aide but with tons of their interference cocking everything up.  By this point, the anger and frustration of their intrusion into what had been a calm and peaceful afternoon was making me shake with anger.  I went into the front living room of the house to find my cousin Jerri, who I haven't seen in real life for over 20 years, in a hospital bed with I believe a cast on one or both legs, and maybe an arm or two.  She looked like a younger version of herself, even younger than the last time I had seen her (I think I might have had a crush on her when I was a kid, and I think that's where this image of her might have been from).  There was some dog, looking like one of those mops with the thick strings.  The dog was facing away, on the couch that had always been below the front windows, and the hair was grey except for what looked like a white string tied into the ass end of him and standing out starkly against the grey.  I said to Jerri that it was nice to see her after so much time, and she turned to me and agreed.  My mother was in the room, at the foot of the hospital bed, which was situated where the wall separating the living and dining room was, on the side where the fireplace was, facing the street - kind of like my bed did the second time I was at Eastwood though I was fully in the dining room.  I was beside the bed, and my mother started to bitch about the way I was yelling at Peter about how little work he did, and then demanded that she have access to the house whenever she wanted and to hell with my privacy.  I approached her and gave her a triple slap in the face, left, right, left, in quick succession, very much like we slap Munchkin or Garfield's asses when they want loving.  Not soft, but not really hard, more to get her attention.  I remember being aware that Peter had come downstairs by this point and was concerned about what type of retribution I was about to receive due to this action, but I was too upset to hold back.  She started crying, not from pain but from shock, and I did too as I shouted "You know, I used to be your son once."  She said I still was, and I yelled back "Not since HE entered the picture."

It was at this point I woke up.  As I lay in bed, noting it was only about 3:20 am (and we had gone to sleep after 1:30 right after "School Of Rock" finished broadcasting on Movietime), went over the dream a couple of times, and even formulated answers to her 'son' rebuttal, things like how he got into the business with her, not me, he was fucking her, but no love for me (really uncomfortable thought that), stuff along those lines.  Those however were formulated after I had awoken.  I also noticed that since getting the new mattress I have not woken with back pain like I used to have on just the old mattress - until this morning.  I don't know if the mattress is now as shitty as the old one alone was, or whether the dream tensed me up so much that it seized the back due to stress, but I tend to think it was the latter.  I also have a huge headache.

This is easily the worst dream I've had in months, and there were some other doozeys...and probably the worst I've had since the start of 2011.  You might not understand why it affected me so badly, and maybe I don't either.  What I do know is that instead of going back to sleep, I'm down here typing this out to you wishing you had words that could help me find my way clear of having dreams like this anymore.  In the violent department, this was tame in comparison to others I've had, but the rage and hatred was very intense here, and it is what is keeping me awake.

As for filling in the blanks, such as who Wayne is, or the reasons for my anger and rage at this person who has been dead for 5 years, I'll eventually get to it all in my Autobiography blogsite.  Knowing that someone, anyone, is interested in knowing what's going on would also help me to write about it.  Please, if you've never written a comment before, I implore you to do so now.