When people say to me (and I mean hundreds of people say this to me) “My dreams are so weird, like, the weirdest” I’m thinking, woah, hang on, stop there, love and hold my beer.
Let me tell you, hundreds of people…
Your dreams will never match up to my nightly visions of weirdness.
It is an impossibility.
They are also, pretty sordid, which probably comes as no surprise to anyone that has read my content, business or personal.
Having sex with a woman on the floor of a public toilet is tawdry.
And dreaming about having a long penis—with no balls, is sleazy yes but also, disturbing.
If any woman were to have actual balls, it would be me, right?
At the start of the week, I had a dream about the model/actor Jon Kortajerena:
I know, total bonus.
It started off well enough, he was in his underwear (lord have mercy) and I was newly married to him (Christ). But then he showed me that his left testicle kept falling out of his shorts.
I have no idea why I keep dreaming of bollocks, I’m sure a shrink would have a fucking field day—there’s a lot to unpack here. And hey, get tighter shorts, Jon!
My dreams are so detailed (and mental) that I started writing them down but that took too much effort so I stopped.
I guess I should apologise to those of you that hate to hear about other peoples’ dreams, I know I do (unless they’re twisted like mine are).
Last night’s dream was no exception.
I was doing some menial job somewhere (I’m also an underachiever in my dreams) when I got a call about some supporting role in a pretty big movie. Fast forward to the release of that movie (it was a comedy) and I was lauded, my proud boss played the film’s premiere footage to my resentful colleagues.
Well, this sounds good, nothing weird here and actually it’s the kind of dream I’d be delighted to come true.
BUT…
Shit has to get weird. It always does.
There’s usually an element of self-sabotage in my dreams. Often it starts well but they’re mostly crazy from the get-go.
There’s this guy (where I work in my dream) who’s sorta sweet on me.
He’s tall, handsome and a fairly big deal re his job, anyways, he brings me a tray of tea and cake (perfect man, right there).
Now, I’m not sure of the chronology—dreams don’t care about stuff like that but I think it was after my acting debut (I’d sure hate to confuse you).
Things get pretty tense between us. I’m not gonna lie, there was an energy
This still sounds like a good dream, nothing odd happening here.
Before you know it, we’re getting into making the beast with two backs when it happens—weirdness happens—actually, disturbing happens (again).
The guy pops something in a drink I have by the bed. No, not his cock and balls, Rohypnol. He then told me, which is stupid because I’m unlikely to drink it knowing he’s spiked me and yet, I DRANK it. Despite all that, I said I was a sure thing—we had already started to have sex, no date rape drug required.
He just laughed. And I slowly slipped into unconsciousness.
Not all my dreams are this sexual.
There was the time I went to visit my friend’s new home. Or the one where I went to buy a secondhand Transit van in Germany. There I met Alan Titchmarsh in a ramshackle shed, trying to convince him to have sex with me. I assured him I didn’t care how old he was despite his pleading “but I’m a pensioner!” yeah, that one took a dark road too.
Ok, what about the one where I was living at my childhood home and my best pal and my then-boyfriend were staying?
(Deffo a dream, my dad would not have allowed that.)
I had his name engraved on the front door, but I misspelt it: instead of saying “Ben is lovely” it read, “Pen is lovely”.
Oh wait, this one is pretty normal…
I was selling a house and a father and son came to view it. Turns out this guy was my mum’s ex-partner and the kid was hers. I, of course, quizzed her on it to which she responded, “Yeah, I’ve been busy.”
Don’t look at me like that. Alright, I can see now that there are some recurring themes. I’ll book a therapist next week.
SBlog, Sarah Wilson-Blackwell, blogger, SEO content writer & copywriter, Oxford 