FACT:
I took a nap this afternoon. While I was asleep, I had one of those crazy, vivid nap-dreams. In this dream, I crapped my pants. For the remainder of the dream, I did nothing about it. I would, from time to time, think about how uncomfortable it was to go about my business with my business sitting in the back of my pants, and even think to myself “I should really take care of this in a minute,” but it never happened.
This led to a lot of reflection when I woke up.
My first thought upon waking up was how comfortable, and more importantly, feces-free my pants were. We’ve all had those dreams where we spend a few moments awake and unsure that what we dreamed was really a dream. Sometimes they’re good things, and it breaks my heart a little bit when I realize that they never actually happened. I still remember being eight and dreaming that I owned Optimus Prime, only to slowly realize after a few moments of being awake that I didn’t. On the other hand, when I’ve just finished dreaming that a loved one is dead, or that I showed up to work before realizing that I accidentally left my clothes at home, or maybe shit in my pants and then ignored it for two hours, that moment where I wake up and realize that whatever the bad thing was I had been dreaming about didn’t really happen, it’s a great feeling.
My second thought was that I really should’ve changed my pants in the dream. I had numerous opportunities to, and it would’ve been easy enough – certainly easier than walking around with soiled pants for two hours – but I never bothered to do it. I have a lot of dreams where I respond to the things that happen in ways that are very different than how I respond to them in real life, and it never occurs to me that there was a much easier, more reasonable thing to do until I’ve been awake for an hour. This was definitely one of those times.
My next thought was that my brain is pulling a fast one on my with this whole “you need to sleep” thing. Think about it: I allegedly need eight or nine hours of sleep a day. If I don’t get it, I go crazy, I can’t think, and I can’t do anything without dozing off. If you deprive yourself of sleep for too long, you can end up damaging your brain. Even though we still don’t totally understand sleep, It’s supposed to be pretty important, because it gives your brain an opportunity to sort everything out, get chemicals re-balanced and organize your thoughts.
I call bullshit, and here’s why: when I give my brain this allegedly vital time to reorganize and recharge, what does it do? I’ll tell you what it does: It spends two hours pretending that I took a dump in my pants. Entertaining, certainly. Vital to my survival? Bitch, please. I’m losing nine hours of my day that I could be spending doing something productive (or, much more likely in my case, unproductive) because my brain “has” to spend time pretending that I’m making out with my Mom or showing up to work naked. It’s the biggest load of shit I’ve ever heard.
Assuming that my brain isn’t fucking with me, it makes me wonder why shitting my pants is of such vital importance for me to be dreaming about. I could be flying or riding a centaur or playing video games in my dreams, but instead I apparently have to be sulking around with the back of my pants sagging for my brain to properly recover from a long day.
My last thought on the subject was that it was interesting that of all of the things I dream about, this was the one that resulted, by far, in the most reflection after waking up. There’s something wrong with me.
NEXT SUBJECT:
I was talking with one of my friends a few days ago that had read this paper by a psychologist who thought that romance novels, movies and sitcoms were completely fucking up everyone’s perception of how relationships were supposed to work. The argument was that people spend a lot of time soaking up these fictional stories about a couple that meet, completely click, know each other’s needs before the other person even knows what they are, finish each other’s sentences, and after a conflict, usually involving a less appealing boyfriend or, in especially queer instances, evil vampires that sparkle in sunlight, everything is resolved and they live harmoniously forever. According to the psychologist in question, there is no conflict in the relationships in most mass media, no compromises, no down time and no real work. Love is just a constant, epic, never ending passionate joy ride, and people see this and expect it out of their relationships. Chuck Klosterman wrote an essay with similar sentiments, but his irritation was directed at Coldplay for blowing people’s perception of love into unrealistic proportions with their bombastic lyrics. I’m not really sure that’s the best reason to not like Coldplay – to me, it’s like turning up your nose at a turd sandwich because it has tomatoes on it – but I guess that my enemy’s enemy is my friend.
I was thinking about this today, because I was working in an eight grade reading class and I decided that I’m pretty sure that a lot of middle school student’s views on life are shaped by shows like “Saved by the Bell” and “The Breakfast Club”. Nobody that age is probably even aware that either of those things exist, but I’m almost certain that there is something similar that has replaced them since then; it’s a winning formula. There seems to be this assumption among certain students that they are a bunch of clever, wise-cracking pranksters who’s job is to sass the teachers, who will, in turn, become flustered and forget to assign them homework. It kind of makes sense. A lot of middle school kids are very focused on themselves and seem to believe that the world is their stage and that they’re the only ones who think or know anything. Unfortunately, for me, in real life, middle school kids are played by middle school kids instead of hot actors in their early 20′s, and there isn’t a staff of funny adults (read: “Jews”) writing their jokes for them. It’s just like being on the set of “Welcome Back Kotter”, only the show is written by 12 year olds. On the fly. It’s about as funny as it sounds.
I shouldn’t be such a dick. There are probably only about six kids out of 100 that I deal with in a day that are actually a pain in the ass. The rest of them are usually really nice, hard workers, and they frequently catch me off guard with some really funny, clever stuff. I just have to devote a lot of time and energy to getting the crazy ones to shut the fuck up and do what they’re supposed to.
NEXT SUBJECT:
I really like Arsonists Get All The Girls. They’re a band (One million points to anyone who can guess the genre. Hint: I like them). Here’s the thing: I’m not completely sure, but I kind of think that they they have a keytar player. At the very least, someone has a synthesizer, because I keep hearing all these sweet Moog type sounds. It’s a relatively rare choice for most modern bands. In a hardcore band (did you guess correctly?) Unheard of.
NEXT SUBJECT:
One of the things that I like about metal shows is that it is considered acceptable and even expected that you shove the people around you. If you’re next to the guy who won’t stop talking, or drank too much, or is irritating in some other way, you can run into him or start throwing elbows at him and it is completely okay.
I was thinking the other day that it would be nice if this was the case ANY time metal was playing.
My little sister and I were at the grocery store buying supplies for Christmas a few weeks ago. The store was packed. A lot of the customers were old, and you know how old people are: slow and unaware of their surroundings. I couldn’t go five feet without having to wait or park my shopping cart somewhere and run by to grab whatever it was that I needed.
Here’s my fantasy: I’m at the grocery store. It’s packed. Old people are all standing in the mathematical center of the aisle I need to get through, staring at the canned green beens in befuddlement. I’m not even sure if they’re actually alive, or just incredibly lifelike mannequins placed in my way to make my shopping experience inconvenient. I can’t get anywhere.
But I’m not angry. I calmly put on a giant pair of sunglasses, take a cassette tape out of the back pocket of my jeans, slide it into the boom box in my shopping cart and hit play.
The next aisle over, everyone is calmly standing in the middle of the aisle, carefully examining the all of the goods as slowly as possible. Slowly, the sound of double bass drums and yelling becomes audible over the sound of the muzak.
Suddenly, I come skidding around the corner. I’m pushing my cart in front of me, full sprint. I have ten feet or so to get a full head of steam before I make contact with the first shopping cart. When I hit, it looks like a bomb went off. The contents of the other cart go flying through the air and even the cart itself goes air born before crashing into a Triscuit display. I pause long enough to grab a couple of jars of marshmallow fluff, play a few licks of air guitar and throw up the horns before sprinting around the corner.
The next five minutes at the store are like that. By the time I make it to the check out counter, the floor is covered with broken jars, overturned rascals and oxygen tanks that have been separated from their owner. Once I have everything, I hit “Stop” on the boombox, take off my sunglasses, pay for my groceries and calmly leave.
Think about it. If this is how life worked, the applications would be limitless! As I’m sure you’re aware, every situation is better with metal, and there are thousands of times during the day when the task you are performing would be accomplished in a far more expedient manner if you could simply elbow someone in the adam’s apple.
I hope that you’re taking notes, president-elect Barak Obama. I’ll send you the Dr. Acula tape free of charge if you promise to use it when you’re “negotiating” with Vladmir Putin.
FINAL SUBJECT:
When I was 12 and started noticing girls, I found 14-16 year old girls to be incredibly hot. When I was in high school, I thought that high school girls were incredibly hot. In college, I was a huge fan of college girls, although I still found high school girls attractive. Now that I’m in my late 20′s and approaching 30, I find myself having the hots for the girls in their mid 20′s up to their mid 30′s.
When is this trend going to stop? When I’m in my 70′s, am I going to be drooling over some hot 60 year old piece of ass that I see walking down the street, hopefully in the process of getting leveled by a shopping cart being pushed by a young man who’s blasting music out of a boombox?
Probably not. Old men who are rich or famous enough to hook up with a trophy wife don’t seem interested in having sex with anyone over the age of 25. I just never thought that I would actually be attracted to 30 year old women, and so the fact that I am now makes me wonder how old I will get before women my age are no longer attractive to me.
THAT IS ALL.
I’m telling you, that’s a damn keytar.