Ungrateful Bitch

In real life, I used to hate my bording school. The school part of it was decent, but I hated living there. Dormitory life was just too cold and institutional, and I don’t like living communally. Having to share toilets and showers, two crappy old phones, and one TV with 20+ other kids. Hell no! It was also too structured for my liking. I lived there, Sunday evenings to Friday mornings. But it often felt like I was living the same recycled day, over and over again. Worst of all was the dorm parents. Those bitchzillas had guardianship over me, and the other poor, unfortunate souls, for a whole school year. It wasn’t all 100% a total living nightmare. The dorm parents had their moments of niceness, but these moments were spirratic. Most of the time, us kids with disabilities were treated like lowly peons. When Graduation Day came, I didn’t walk across the stage to get my diploma. I exploded with silly/stupid/jackass happiness, which got the crowd going.

In the dream, it was 2018, but I somehow morphed back into a teenager. I enrolled into FSDB again, but this time around, dorm life was like how I would’ve wished it to be, over 20 years ago. However, for some reason, I still had no appreciation for it.


When I got settled into my dorm room, I was happy to see that my roommate was Pilar, one of my friends from the old D&B days. And she had morphed into a teenager too. The first cool thing I noticed about the dorm, was that me and Pilar were allowed to have a TV in our room. Then I realized how much nicer the dorm parents were, and so lenient too.

It was after our 10:30 bed time, but I decided to bring my I-phone out in the hallway, and watch this dream-made-up show about Alien teenagers who came to Earth, and spread their pop culture influences to American teenagers. This show was really popular among all my dormmates. Pilar and several other girls joined me in the hallway, and crowded around my phone. Then suddenly, a bunch of deep fried foods popped out of my phone. A bowl appeared in my hand to catch them, and I was free to pig out. After I polished it all off, one of my dormmates handed me a huge doughnut.

The dorm parents didn’t do anything about this rule breaking behavior.

After the show was over, my battery was getting low. So I went into the dorm living room to charge it. There were other dormmates and their off-campus friends having a sleepover in there. Then I remembered that I had my 6:30 A M alarm set on my phone. So I decided to let it charge in me and Pilar’s room, in case the sleepover girls didn’t want to be woken up that early. Everybody else was asleep. So I thought I should turn in for the night too.

However, I just ate a bunch of junk food, and morphing into a teenager didn’t make my middle aged health problems go away. So it wouldn’t have been wise for me to lay down, after such a fatty pig out, but I really was getting tired. So I checked my closet for any spare blankets I could roll up, and use as extra pillows to prop up my upper body. When I opened the closet curtain, the top shelf instantly filled up with puffy spare pillows.

The next morning, me and my dormmates, and the girls from off campus, were permitted to eat fast food breakfasts in the rec room, instead of going to the school cafeteria.

We all had a great time, just hanging out and eating, and talking about how cool last night’s alien pop culture show was.

Then the dream fast-forwarded to after school hours. Mom was in the dorm office. She came to visit me, and see how I was adjusting. As I hugged her, I said, “Mom, please get me out of this hellhole.”. The nice versions of the dorm parents were right there in the room, and they didn’t reprimand me for not watching my language. Mom agreed to take me back home, but before we left, I cussed out the dorm parents, and trashed the office. On the drive home, I felt no remorse over my attitude. I just wanted to be a normal kid, and go to the same high school as my sisters.

Wow, what does dreaming about being an ungrateful bitch symbolize?


Does it Exist?

I drempt about one-way windows for houses. These windows had three layers to them. The part of the window that faced the outside, looked like a normal window. It was a normal window, with no digital capabilities. Layered in between, was fake closed curtains, or closed blinds. These windows were full of hidden digital video cameras. The part of the window that faced the inside, was a solid electronic screen that showed everything that was going on outside, just like a regular window.

People had the option to have the inner window have panes, to make it more real. Or they could have a full, solid view of the world outside. There were fancier one-way-windows that had extra options. Such as magnification. You could enlarge the entire view. Or tap on something you want to zoom in on, like a pretty butterfly feeding from a flower. Each tap magnified the chosen image, a little more. Each tap with two fingers shrunk back the image, a little more. They also had an option called, Vacation Mode, that allowed you to change the view to somewhere you’d rather be. Like an exotic tropical Paradise. Or in the mountains. I remember a view option of winter in Alaska, where you saw the northern lights. And there was one that made your one-way-windowed room appear as though you were living in a high-rise, in Manhattan.


In real life, I used to be a binge drinker. At this time in life, I’ve grown too physically fragile to drink too much, but I don’t miss those hazy times one bit. My sisters, who were also a couple of lushes, agreed with me that we should collaborate on writing a book called, something like, 50 Reasons to Stay Sober. The book would be about the worst of our drunken crazy bitch experiences. I sure had some royal jackass moments. Like the time when I was petting a huge pile of my barf, because I thought it was the dog. Or the time when I scared the shit out of my poor elderly neighbors, banging on their door, like the police, only to surprise them with a happy-anniversary rap at 2:00 in the morning. Or the time when I prank texted my friend, Jorge’s ex girlfriend/baby mama, pretending to be him. His ex was my friend too. So I knew her phone number, but I hadn’t got around to telling her that I had gotten an I-Phone, and a new phone number. So she mistaken me, not for Jorge, but for one of her pesky ex boyfriends. The poor girl got really creeped out. The next day, I read our textversation, and was like, “What the?!” My texts didn’t sound like they were from Jorge OR from me. Apparently, my drinking binge had given me a case of multiple personality disorder, and I sounded like some overly flirty British dude.

I still have a drink, every now and then. On rare occasions, I’ll drink till I’m a little tipsy. But it’s been a few years since I drank until I was delirius. And then was like, “Oh, my god… what have I done?”, the next day. Still, I sometimes have anxiety dreams about

going back to my crazy old ways.


My sister, Christa, was visiting from Panama, which she does routinely, in real life. While the Family was having their usual catching-up-with-Christa blab fest, I was drinking some of everything. Beer, wine, Manhattans, hard cola, and so on. Then suddenly, it was nighttime already, and everybody else was ready to go to bed, but me. I was in a PAAAAAARTEY mood.

So I went to my room, and listened to music on my I-Phone, I think. Then I thought I felt myself sobering up, which meant that it was time to get more booze. The next thing I knew, I was sitting, or knealing on my bedroom floor, with a full, opened bottle of Champagne in my hand.

I then acted on impulse, and called Jo, my editor, who lives all the way in England. It wasn’t the middle of the night, over there, like it was in Florida. But it was still gaudawfully early in the morning. Too early for one of his clients to be calling him, wasted out of her mind.

Our conversation was a vague blur to me. I was aware of my maniac drunken laughter, and that I was belching into the phone. Then at the end of the conversation, I remembered him saying, “All right, you take care. Cheers.” Then I blacked out.

The next morning was one of my “Oh, my God… What have I done?” Moments.

I remembered that I called Jo, in the wee hours of the night, but what the hell were we talking about? Naturally, I thought the worst of the situation, and dreaded finding out what an obnoxious embarrassment I made out of myself. I’m supposed to be working on my second novel with this guy, and he already promised me a reduced price.

I checked my phone to see if there was any hinting evidence of what my drunken conversation might’ve been about. Any texts or e-mails exchanged, before or after I called Jo.

I found that he e-mailed me some obscure B horror movie. There was also an e-mail I sent to myself. When I opened it, all it said was, Eeeeeeeeeeewww.

Then when I went to plug my headphones into my phone, I discovered that I had chewed the hell out of them, like a dog would. The left earbud was nawed completely off. What the…!!

The worst discovery was that, while in my drunken delirium, I downloaded a crapload of Guns’N Roses stuff on my phone. I rock out to Guns’N Roses sometimes, but I never was obsessed with them. Maybe it was the alcohol giving me multiple personalities again. I had every album GNR ever made, plus ringtones of their songs, GNR wallpaper, GNR based apps. My inbox even squawked like Axil Rose, every time I got a new e-mail. Oh, my God… What have I done?

To escape the shame, I jumped into a time warp. I went back to reliving a mondane real life memory.

It was autumn of 1999. I was nearly 20, and living in a townhouse in Orlando, with my other sister, Gina, and her boyfriend-at-the-time. It was 2:00 in the morning, and I was up, watching TV. Rustle Simmons Def Comedy Jam was over, and this goofy-ass infomercial came on, chop full of bad acting. It was about choosing a diet and exercise plan, according to which of the four objects your body is shaped like. “Are you a spoon, an ice cream cone, a rod, or an hour glass?” The sales pitch guy asked nocturnal TV veiwers, like every five minutes.

When I woke up, I was like, you idiot. If you want to escape the shame of a binge drinking relapse, by jumping into a time warp. Then just go back in time, to the previous afternoon, before Christa arrived, where you could’ve redeemed yourself by simply deciding not to start drinking in the first place.

I Present To You, Indigo Moonpie! ๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ‘

Attention, my meager, but very valuable audienceโฃ๏ธ

I welcomed a fresh new blogger to join me, and share her discombobulated adventures in the Dream Dimension, with you. You’ll like her. She’s just as way-out-there as I am. I knew her since our high school days, at the Florida School for the Deaf and the Blind. We always had a fascination with the abstract stories, hidden symbolisms, and the occasional foresight from our subconscious worlds. I look forward to reading her dream journalism, and soon you will too.

Along with myself, and Indigo Moonpie, I hope to get others to become a part of this blog. And share their nonsensical, horrific, erotic, fun, sad, nostalgic, movie-like, and possibly psychic dreams too.


I don’t have nightmares very often. Maybe once or twice a year. I haven’t had any, since my last post, two weeks ago. However, I think it’s about time to add a little nightmare gore to this happy, Alice In Wonderland type blog. So here is my most recent nightmare, from a month ago.



My parents and I got into raising chickens. We had more than one rooster, so we decided to make dinner out of one of them. I chose a pretty red rooster to kill, but I didn’t snap his neck, like how most people kill their chickens. For some evil, twisted reason, the parents and I agreed that the rooster should be nuked alive, in the microwave. What creeped me out more than the way we killed him, was our apathetic, sociopath attitudes about it.

The poor bird was a tame and trusting creature. He didn’t put up any struggle, when I carried him into the kitchen, and shoved him inside the microwave. He innocently thought that the microwave was a new coop for him.

Once the rooster was shut in, and I pressed the START button, the radar seemed to paralyze the poor little guy’s vocal chords, because he couldn’t scream. I saw his beak opening, over and over again, as he was trying to scream. I just stood there and watched, as the

rooster panicked. He flapped his wings, and franticly butted his body against the door, and the three walls of the microwave, struggling to find a way out.

After two minutes of this most horrific torture, the rooster began dying. He convulsed, gasping and choking, as the radar cooked him from the inside out. As his insides boiled in his blood and bodily juices, his chest and abdomen pulsated. Like the way oat meal or scrambled eggs do, when they are microwaved.

Then he had one last violent convulsion. His body flopped up, and slammed.hard against the microwave window. All his feathers were puffed out, and one side of his face was smooshed against the window.

His smooshed eye looked like a gray-blue, translucent blister. Then he flopped back down, and was officially dead.

Mom and dad were in the living room, watching their political shows, as though nothing out of the ordinary just happened. Nothing disturbing. It was just another day of torturing an animal, before our family dinner.

The evil version of me took the limp, dead rooster out of the microwave, and flopped him down onto the kitchen counter. “All right, who’s going to come in here, and help me gut this thing?!” I called out, coldly.

Soft Drink Tsunami

I went grocery shopping with my mom. After the car was all loaded up, I got into the back seat, and mom got into the front passenger seat. She turned to the driver’s seat, extended her arms to reach the steering wheel, and extended her legs to reach the pedals, and drove the car that way. This was making me nervous, but she was doing a good job driving with this awkward technique.

“Mom, why are you driving like that?” I asked.

“Because I’m tired.” she said.

Then dad suddenly appeared in the driver’s seat, and took over for mom. The two of them blabbed about politics, as we drove through a rural town full of scenic, intensely green forests. When we turned down one street, the car was suddenly submerged under soda.

The entire town, forests and all, were deep under this soda. I couldn’t taste or smell what flavor this soda was, but it was that same lemonade-and-lima beans color as the lightning from my “Hey, where’s my pants?” dream. So this color must symbolize something.

The soda filled the car, within seconds. I thought we were going to drown, but my parents acted calm and casual, as though getting your car submerged in soda is as common of a problem as getting a flat tire. They were even somehow able to breathe under soda. They continued their political Conversation, in soda bubbled voices, as we kicked at the car windows until they broke. Then we swam free.

Once we surfaced above effervescence, the funky colored soda became a soft drink tsunami that carried us hundreds of feet up, and then somehow, it became slow and gentle. In the end, we were safely washed onto a beach.

Why Are Squirrels Such Infuriatingly Wasteful Garden Pests?

Have you ever planted tomatoes, and they ripen so beautifully. All red and round, and probably chop full of salty, juicy deliciousness. Then by the time you go to pick them, it’s too late. A squirrel helped himself to them first. You pick one tomato, and there’s a bite taken from it. It’s just one little bite. You could just cut off the bitten part, and eat the rest of the tomato, right? Hell nah! What if the squirrel who bit it has rabies. Now it’s contaminated, and sadly, you just have to throw it away. Then you go pick the next tomato, and the next one, and the next one… And they ALL have just one little bite taken out of them! You want to kill that squirrel! Are squirrels aware of it, when they’re being total assholes? Why can’t they just stick to nibbling on one tomato?! Then one night, an explanation about this annoying squirrel behavior came to me, from the Dream Dimension.


I was outside, in a total stranger’s beautifully maintained vegetable Garden. It was early in the morning. The sun hadn’t rose yet, which was too early for these strangers’ who’se yard I was trespassing, to be up.

Then I realized that I wasn’t really trespassing, because I had no human body. I was a living gust of cool morning air. So I glided around the garden, and admired its incregetable beauty.

These people had just about every vegetable in the rainbow. Red radishes, Orange habanero peppers, yellow squash, Belgian endive, graffiti eggplant, white asparagus, and the colorful List could go on for another five or ten pages.

Then I glided over to a wooden trellice that was covered in vines, generously abundant with pretty heirloom tomatoes. All of a sudden, a squirrel jumped onto these vines, and immediately went to town, doing that very annoying thing that squirrels do. “Stop that, you little jerk!” I wanted to say, but of course, I couldn’t, because I was a gust of cool morning air. So it came out as, “ooooooosh”

I gusted back and forth through the vines, faster and faster, trying to shake them hard enough. So the squirrel would get scared, and jump off. The Vines were too heavy with heirloom tomatoes, for a non-violent gust of air, like me, to be able to shake them to a squirrel scaring capacity.

The squirrel continued climbing all over the vines, taking one bite of each tomato it climbed to. Then a Second squirrel began doing the same thing, on a nearby Beef steak tomato plant. There was nothing I could do about it. I felt bad for the Garden owners, who were going to wake up, and discover that most of their heirloom and Beefsteak tomatoes are ruined,

“They hopskip around, from one tomato to another, because they know there’s lots of critters always out to get them. If they stayed in one place, eating one tomato, a cat’s gonna creep up and get them.” said Johnny Cash’s disembodied Voice.

And then I woke up.

Hmmm, that makes sense. Squirrels are not assholes. They’re just taking as much nutritious tomato as they can, as quickly as possible, while making themselves harder for a Predator to catch… hey, but then why aren’t they so Predator conscientious, when they’re willing to stay in one place for a long time, when they’re trying to figure out The Best Way to destroy your bird feeder?