So I’ve been getting more sleep lately, which is awesome because I’m now almost a functioning member of society, but is also really weird because my dreams are apparently those of someone on the wrong side of some bad drugs. I think I must be catching up on four years of lost REM sleep, because every night is like a party in my head, only nobody’s wearing pants. Oh wait, that is a party.
Each night is an epic saga from dusk til dawn and I wake up with the enormous urge to tell people I’ve dreamed about them. The urge usually subsides when I realise how insane I sound and everyone goes about their day, oblivious to the fact they were eating cats and discussing with me the merits of negative gearing. “No really Stacey, just wait for inflation, you’ll be laughing”. It’s better left unsaid.
Until this week, when I dreamed John Safran and I went out on a date. This was the result:
See the thing was, he was so kind and concerned about me losing my shoes in the library (I was more concerned about the fact I was wearing pink Mary Janes, that is a poor representation of my life choices), that it had a profound effect on me. What a lovely chap! He must be told this absurd nocturnal subconscious episode of a complete stranger.
Reader, I regret to inform you I took leave of my senses that morning, but high five to Mr Safran, who probably still has his finger on the green phone icon, ready to call the cops.
Do you ever tell people about your dreams? I think I might retire from that game.