Take My Hand, Off to Never-Never Land

You can't be held responsible for your dreams, right? They're just your subconscious on auto-pilot, rummaging around and repackaging the crates of crap packed up from the day. Dreams are like the puppet show in Hamlet, a micro-replay of your daily dreads and desires.

It's all a psychological metaphor, right? Dancing equals sex. Sex equals craving. Flying equals achievement. Your mother equals guilt. Sleep equals death, and so forth...

So, we've all had those dreams we wish we hadn't, right? Those dreams that leave us with an urgent need to take a shower: romantic interlude with your mother, passenger in a crashing plane, basement possessed by demons, gay sex with your best friend, and (my favorite) showing up 12 years late for a math test, naked, without your pencil, unsure where the classroom is...

So, I shouldn't be blamed if I've had a couple of unusual kissing dreams lately, right? The first dream was about making out with the wife of someone I know. (And right now, each of you is thinking, "MY wife??" Well, for one of you, the answer is "yes." For the rest, sorry, no.) It wasn't really so much making out, as it was gearing up for one big kiss, with lot's of theatrical dodging and weaving. The problem is, when I see this person now, I feel awkward, but she has NO idea...

Then, there is the other dream. Pretty simple. I was making out with a co-worker, someone I work with. The only odd thing was that her lips felt like they had a tight band of surgical tubing running through them, kinda like calamari. Otherwise, it was perfectly pleasant. Unfortunately, now, when I talk to her at work, I keep thinking about the calamari sensation.

Well, it's getting late. Off to bed for me. I wonder who or what my sad little brain will cook up tonight...