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Don't Tell Me Your Dreams

I have a secret.

I don't like hearing about people's dreams.

To clarify, I don't mean "aspirations" or "hopes." I mean those crazy dreams people have that they then need to dissect with others.

"So the other night, I had this dream--"

The minute I hear a sentence begin with that, I cringe. I don't know why. There's no childhood memory or psychological explanation for why I should have an aversion to listening to people's dreams.

I just can't bear to hear about them.

Oh don't get me wrong, I listen. I tell myself that it's ridiculous to feel so uncomfortable just by listening to someone talk about their dreams.

"...and there was a monkey, and it was pointing at me..."

This is usually when I'm pinching myself to try and create pain so as to distract myself from how awkward I feel.

Maybe it's because of how personal the whole thing seems. Dreams can be a window into someone's soul, and often times, I'd rather not look through that window.

Not to mention that even good dreams are like the worst stories you've ever heard--there's usually either sex, love, betrayal, murder, over-sized animals, over-sized murderous animals, nudity, ex's, or all of the above involved.

I rarely ever discuss my dreams. I had a conversation with my friend Leann once about a recurring creepfest I was having regarding an open closet door, and even as I was telling it to her I felt like apologizing over and over again for subjecting her to it, but she's particularly good at interpreting that kind of stuff.

"...and then Smokey Robinson was there, and he took the spoon from me and..."

I never have good dreams--ever.

I have weird dreams or nightmares, that's it.

In a way, it's nice. I always wake up happy that whatever I've just been going through in my mind is over, but it doesn't make the prospect of sleeping all that appealing.

When I was kid, I envied people who had nice dreams. I would hear people talk about flying in their dreams or floating above their own bodies, and it was like that time when I couldn't snap my fingers, and all the kids in my class were standing around me snapping away to show me how incompetent I was...

...or maybe that was a dream.

I've been murdered more times than I care to remember in my dreams. I've been chased by madmen. I've had hideously tense confrontations with everyone from family members to people I've dated. I've relived break-ups. I've been dropped from large heights (did I mention I'm terrified of heights?) into shark-filled pools.

Apparently, my mind is a sadist and I'm a fratboy during hazing week.

Maybe that's why I don't like hearing about dreams, because my own dreams are so unsettling to think about.

"...and that's when I woke up and realizing I wasn't in a monastery and I didn't have four arms."

...Or maybe there are some things you just shouldn't analyze too much.

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