Spread the Word of Awesome!

Archive for the ‘Dreamalicious’ Category

Baby Foxy?

Alright, I don’t have many Five Nights at Freddy’s dreams, but I sure had one last night!

So apparently, I lived in a world where Freddy Fazbear’s Entertainment really existed, and so did the animatronics. Since in real life I played the game, in the dream, I had worked in one of the facilities, having experienced the horrors of the animatronics myself. Then, somehow I went back in time… way back in time…

I don’t know what year it was, but at the facility, there was only Fredbear and Spring Bonnie, but other animatronics were in production. Nothing spooky had happened yet, or at least, nothing the public was aware of. Michael and I were walking around, and for some reason, we kept finding dolls of Futurama characters, which hadn’t even existed yet. He found one of Bender, and I went down a hall, explaining to him I had found one of Roberto. He was just outside the hall, so I said, “I found one of Roberto, but he was really damaged just like–”

I was about to say, “just like Foxy,” but instead, I let out a loud squeal. Just before I was about to finish my sentence, a three foot tall animatronic came waddling out of a back room, and it stared up at me. IT WAS THE CUTEST THING, and I recognized it immediately. It was Foxy, but he was a baby, as if the animatronics had a baby phase and actually grew up into adults. He was in perfect condition, looking brand new, and his form was very simple and chubby. The differences were, he didn’t have an eye patch or a hook, so it seemed as though he hadn’t originally been meant to be a pirate.

I died, of course, picking him up and hugging him, knowing full well who he was. When it comes to cute things, I really can’t help myself. He seemed to like the attention though, so he allowed me to carry him out of the hall. I showed him to Michael, who was like, “that thing almost killed you in our time, and you’re hugging it?!” I told him that Foxy was just an innocent baby, and maybe giving him some love would help his future self. Mike shrugged and wandered off somewhere.

I sat against the wall and played with baby Foxy, who took his stubby hands and started batting them on my face. He meant to be gentle, but he was made of metal, so it was more firm than it would be if he were a real fox. It didn’t hurt, but it did make me flinch. I started baby talking to him, and he spoke back. It was a like a child’s voice coming from an old radio, even worse quality than a Furby. I could still understand him though, and he said, “do you want to sing a song with me?” He was programmed to entertain children, so naturally, he was going to do that, even with an adult.

Two other animatronics came out, and they must’ve been rejects or something, because I had never seen them before. There was a big, fat hippo, and a small, but long and thin lizard. The hippo had bongos, and the lizard had an ukulele, so they started playing and singing, and Foxy hopped off my lap, faced me, and began to dance, singing as well. I was clapping along, enjoying the cute little fox’s performance, and eventually Fredbear came up to sing with them, though I’m not sure where Bonnie was.

After their song was done, I took Foxy’s little hands and danced with him a little more, but then Michael called out to me and told me to “come look at this.” I said to Foxy, “I’ll be right back, sweetie, don’t go anywhere, okay?” He looked extremely sad, but I gave him a hug and went to see what Mike was looking at.

I don’t think Fazbear’s Pizza was actually Fazbear’s pizza. It was more like an indoor playground, and so far, it didn’t seem too popular. There were paintings of cartoon versions of Fredbear and Bonnie, games, playground equipment, and a bookcase for adults to read while they supervise their kids. There weren’t many people in the building, so it was really quiet.

Mike led me to the bookcase and pointed to a book titled, The Joy of Creation, which is funny because, in the first game, Freddy says something really fast on the phone on night five, and you can hear him say “the joy of creation” in it. I opened the book and saw that it was about what inspired the creation of this entertainment center and the animatronics, as well as the work put behind it.

I came to a page that showed sketches of scrapped designs for animatronics. The hippo, Hippy, and the lizard, Zardo, were shown there, but there were a few more. However, baby Foxy was also there. I was shocked to see that Foxy was there, since I knew he is a character in the future. The page also explained that Foxy, Hippy, and Zardo were all built and programmed to simply test how the systems worked, but were not to be kept as characters. They were stowed in a back room after testing, but I guess they hadn’t been turned off… or they had been, and they turned themselves back on.

I didn’t blame them for scrapping Hippy and Zardo, because they were kind of lame, and Zardo wore a sombrero and spoke with a stereotypical Mexican accent, so I felt he might offend… then again, this was a different time period… but there was nothing wrong with baby Foxy. He was perfect in every way, so cute, friendly, funny, and docile.

I went back to find Foxy, and he came running up to me, hugging my leg. I picked him up and ventured to find the manager. When I found her, I explained that I had read about the scrapped animatronics in The Joy of Creation, and that I felt Foxy should stay on as a character. (While I was talking, Foxy was nuzzling my cheek, and he had the collar of my shirt clutched tightly in his hands.)

“The only reason we feel Foxy isn’t suitable is because he has problems getting attached to people,” said the manager. “I’m not sure how you found him, or turned him on, but we feel it’s best to keep him away from people.”

“I’ve spent lots of time with him today, and he seems to be fine,” I said. “Maybe if he gets a lot of attention, he’ll grow out of this ‘mommy phase.'”

“Well, we’ll see…” she replied, but didn’t seem too sure. Again, I took Foxy out to the main room to play. He preferred me to sit down so that he could be at eye level with me, and he spent a lot of time sitting on my lap while we spoke to each other. He started to call me “mama,” which I thought was cute, and at the time, was too blinded by this cuteness to see that there was indeed a problem. He would tell me all about how he loves to sing and dance, but he’s scared of Fredbear and Bonnie because they were so tall. He also told me he wants to eat Zardo, but his “wittle teef awr too smawl.”

After quite some time, Michael came back and said there was an emergency we needed to tend to somewhere else. I said I didn’t want to leave Foxy, but Mike told me we could come back later. I set Foxy down, and he looked even more anguished than before, and I could tell he didn’t want me to leave.

“I have to go for just a little bit, Foxy, okay? But I’ll be right back, I promise,” I said. Foxy just stared miserably at me, so I said again, “I promise, I’ll be right back. We’ll play again in no time, alright?” He nodded slowly, and Mike and I hurried out.

For the life of me, I don’t remember what was so important, but it took us much longer than I thought. The sun had gone down, and the sky was dark by the time I went back to the entertainment center without Michael, which stayed open until ten. It was completely empty, except for the employees and manager, but something was different. The paintings on the walls had changed. Instead of the characters smiling and looking happy, they looked enraged. I had a really bad feeling, so I ran around the place, calling out for Foxy.

Hippy and Zardo came out of nowhere and tried to attack me, but Hippy was too slow, and Zardo was too small to be any threat. I knew, however, that if I met Fredbear or Bonnie, I’d be in trouble. I came face to face with the manager, and I asked her where Foxy was.

“I’m not sure,” she said, “something must’ve upset him really bad, the animatronics are going haywire, and the paintings have changed! I don’t know what’s going on!”

“Um… I think this is my fault… I told him I’d be right back, but it took me longer than I thought, so he must think I lied…” I mumbled.

“I told you! He has problems with getting too attached! He thinks you’re his mother or something!” she yelled angrily at me. I felt even more guilty, and rushed away, continuing to call out Foxy’s name. He finally crawled out from under a table, and I knelt down, holding my arms out. The look he was giving me was of pure hatred, and my heart broke when I saw it.

“I’m sorry I took so long, but look! I’m back, just like I promised!” This didn’t seem to make him feel better, and I knew his trust in me had been broken. He actually hissed at me, and both Fredbear and Bonnie burst into the room, heading toward me alarmingly fast. They were like eight feet tall, and their eyes were just as murderous as Foxy’s. Having been through this before, I screamed and ran back to the entrance. When I was outside, the two enormous animatronics were still hell bent on chasing me down, wanting to punish me for hurting baby Foxy, so I had to continue to run.

I ended up bumping into this young man, just a little younger than me, and he saw what was chasing me. He grabbed me, and we got into this weird go-kart he owned, and I knew it probably wasn’t street legal. It had been rigged up so that, not only was it really fast, but it was also armored to protect the riders inside. We drove away as fast as we could, and I mentioned to him that I was terrified of riding in cars, but he said I’d have to deal if we wanted to get away from those things. He introduced himself as Lucas.

The car was surprisingly swift and fluid, but I still scared me, and I expected to be chased down by cops at any moment. Just then, we saw a delivery truck with the Fredbear logo on it, and Lucas was unable to avoid it, so we crashed. We were so strong of a car, it tipped the truck over and broke the back open. I got out, and froze in fear, seeing the animatronics of Chica, Bonnie, Freddy, Toy Chica, Toy Bonnie, and Toy Freddy stand up, having been lying on the ground from the crash. They all stared at me, a horrible, evil look in their eyes, and I thought they too were going to attack me, but then they turned away and started walking in the direction of the entertainment center. Apparently they were being delivered, but since the truck crashed, they had to get there on their own.

Lucas took me to his friend’s house to try and figure out a way to get me home, and all the while, I just sat on the couch and thought. I came to the conclusion that I had caused the animatronics to go crazy. I made it so Foxy had trouble trusting people, developing abandonment issues. (Of course, this is nowhere near the actual explanation in the real games.) The other animatronics became protective over Foxy, even as he grew up. Freddy, becoming the leader after Fredbear, would be responsible for wanting the staff to keep Foxy as a character, so they redesigned him as a pirate. Interaction with children in Pirate Cove caused him to feel pain, remembering how his “mother” betrayed him, which caused the bite of 87. It was my fault, and If I hadn’t shown baby Foxy love, the whole thing in the future would’ve never happened.

I felt awful, wishing there was a way to fix what I had done, but I had to find a way to get back to Michael so we could return to our own time. (Why we went back in time in the first place, I have no idea.) Lucas started to like me, so he kept making excuses not to let me go, but I told him he and I wouldn’t work out because I was with Mike, and we planned to get married in a few years. I told Lucas that he was sweet and attractive, but I loved Michael, and nothing would change that. He eventually admitted defeat.

On the way to trying to reunite me with Mike, we came by this gang that had both boys and girls in it, and we started to get in a fight. Lucas took down some guys, but I managed to fuck up this red headed girl so bad, none of the other girls wanted a piece of me, seeing as how I didn’t have a scratch on me. This impressed all of the guys in the gang, so they let us go.

I woke up before I had a chance to see Mike again, but it’s okay, because it was the real Mike that woke me up! Here’s what baby Foxy looked like:

baby foxy


Dreams of Alternate Universes!

Thank you, Trazodone, for these surprisingly vivid dreams!

A few months ago, before I was on my new sleeping medication, I had a dream that I had been sent to an alternate universe where I had never grown up in a broken home. I started writing a story based on it, but I haven’t been working on it. It actually kind of saddened me…

But this one was a whole different story. I had gone to sleep, and then woke up in a different place. It was still an apartment, but it wasn’t my apartment. A man was sitting next to me, and I freaked out because I didn’t recognize him. I don’t remember his name, so I’ll call him Miguel (because he looked Latino). I demanded where I was, and he looked very shocked, saying I was home, of course. I asked him who he was, and he said he was my roommate and my intern.

“Intern for what?” I asked. He showed me a lanyard around my neck with a laminated card that read, “Dr. Kara Reynolds, medical professional.” I was a doctor. WHAT?! Miguel seemed very hurt that I didn’t remember him for some reason, so he started cutting into his upper arm with a blade, which I thought was a little over the top, and he had to apply a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.

Apparently we had another roommate, and I’ll call her Casey. She was a surgeon. Our apartment was small, kind of messy, and pretty empty. There were these huge beetles everywhere, and they didn’t look like any beetle I’ve ever seen. I was scared of them for some reason, even though I don’t have a fear of most bugs. Casey was concerned that I didn’t remember anything from my life before waking up that morning, so she decided to stick by me for the day.

We left the apartment, seeing that we were in a hotel-like hallway. We went downstairs and left the building. IT WAS CRAZY. The sky was the clearest blue, but all of the buildings were tall, close together, and shiny. There were many neon lights of different colors, and the cliché flying cars. There were still streets, but it seemed that they were for walking only.

Casey and I walked down a road under some kind of high tech overpass that led into an industrial tunnel, and as people entered it, a female voice would say things like, “administering penicillin,” “administering aspirin,” “administering floexetine,” et cetera. One girl rushed by me and said, “move! I feel sick!” She ran under the overpass, and the voice said, “administering promethazine.” Then the girl sighed in relief and carried on down the tunnel. When I passed under, the voice said, “administering bupropion, venlafaxine, and lamotrigine.” I was a little confused, for those were the medications I had to take, so I asked Casey about it.

“Medication to cure all illnesses are given by transmitting them to the person who needs it,” she explained. “All of those machines are able to detect if you’re sick, and they give you what you need to cure or treat it. Sometimes people don’t even know they were sick until they walk under one. This keeps diseases from spreading. Mental illnesses are no exception.”

“Where are we going?” I asked her.

“To the hospital where we work. But today, you won’t be doing your job, we need to see what’s causing your amnesia. The treatment machines can’t do anything about that,” Casey replied. So we went to the hospital, which looked very strange. Instead of it being brightly lit and white all over, it was dim, industrial, and lit with more neon lights. It looked like a space themed rave, just without music and dancers. Doctors and nurses all wore long white trench coats, but they had different symbols on them to identify their job position.

Casey explained my predicament to a nurse, who didn’t seem to like me much, so she put me in the physical therapy room until she could find someone to care for me. Casey had to go perform a surgery. Afraid of all of the strange patients, I sort of kept to myself as I watched them use the exercise equipment. I had no idea what world I had woken up in, but I wanted to find a way to get back to mine. I went through another door to explore the hospital.

I found myself in a hallway with doors to patients’ rooms. I looked into some of them, seeing they were small, but customized to suit the person living in them. As I went through a few halls, I found myself in a grassy area, and the grass was so thick and plush, it felt like a big cushion. I couldn’t even walk on it without falling, so I had to crawl. I came across a large, bright green lizard that had been sleeping, but when I tried to get a better look at it, it woke up. It bared its fangs at me, which were thin and sharp like needles. I thought it might be poisonous, so I tried to back away, but it was extremely fast. It came up and started biting my hand, but the fangs weren’t penetrating my skin. Instead, a water-like substance started coming from the fangs and dripping down my hand, and I realized it was milking its venom on me. I didn’t want to take the chance of the venom doing something to my skin, or wait to see if the fangs would eventually puncture me, so I went back the way I had come. The lizard chased me until I was off of the grass.

I went down some stairs and came to an underground passageway. It was really dark, the only source of light being candles on the walls. Yes, candles, not torches. I was suddenly surprised by this parade of creatures with different noise makers as noses, and they started honking and whistling obnoxiously. A young girl with dark grey hair grabbed my hand and led me into a room. Twas no room, my friends, but an entire town. Things were floating, or upside down, or both, people were dressed extremely unorthodox, the sky was a deep purple, and the air itself seemed to be tinted a bluish color. There were a lot of weird plants around, things that didn’t even look like plants.

A girl with pink hair came up to us, and she reminded me of Pinkie Pie with the way she spoke and behaved. In fact, because I don’t know her name, I’ll call her Pinkie, and the grey haired girl will be Elise. Elise introduced Pinkie as her sister, and Pinkie reached down to a patch of fluffy white stuff and shoved it in my mouth. It was sweet and yummy, like soft meringue. As we stood there conversing, two more girls came up, one being a goth girl with bobbed black hair, and the other having long silver blonde hair, dressed like a cyber raver. We’ll call the goth Emma, and the blonde Suzette.

“Emma! You always pop up like candy clouds on a sweet and sunny day!” said Pinkie happily. Emma laughed, but Suzette furrowed her brow.

“That made no sense,” she said.

“It did to me,” said Emma. “I’ve known Pinkie since we were kids. Her way of speaking really only makes sense to Elise and I. What she just said was, ‘Emma! Great timing!’ If she were to say, ‘bubbles never pop in silky string things,’ that would mean ‘your hair looks nice.'” The girls all demanded I introduce myself, and I told them that I didn’t know where I was, that I had somehow been transferred from my old world into an alternate universe.

“This has happened before,” said Emma, “but the government tries to hush it up. They take people from other universes and make up lives for them here, but the problem they have is everyone always retains their previous memories. They take these people to a room and erase their old memories, replacing them with the ones they want you to have. The only people who know about this are government officials, but everyone in this underground have found out at some point, and that’s why we’re here. We’re the banished ones, and we’re not allowed to go above ground.”

“Why did those noisy things freak out when I came here?” I asked.

“Those are the alarms,” said Elise. “They make noise if anyone from the outside comes down here, or if any of the banished try to leave. You’re lucky I found you, or you would’ve been hauled away.”

“And what’s that?” I continued, pointing at the white puffy stuff Pinkie had fed me.

“That’s grass,” said Elise. I must’ve looked extremely confused, for Suzette started to explain.

“Banishment isn’t so bad because every plant or animal here is some sort of candy or pastry. The trees are made of chocolate, and their leaves are fruit leather.” I was suddenly overjoyed, and Pinkie grabbed mine and Elise’s hands, shoving us into a cart attached to the back of a bike, and she hopped on to ride it through the town. Emma and Suzette waved goodbye to us as we went.

Pinkie started singing loudly, and many people we passed by joined in. Elise leaned over the edge of the cart, grabbing at different plants and handing them to me. We both happily ate so many sweet things, and I listened to the singing, watched the cartoonish buildings, the floating objects, and enjoyed looking at the quirky people. It made me so happy.

“This is the kind of world I could live in forever!” I told Elise, who smiled and clapped energetically.

“Let’s go into the spooooooky forest!” said Pinkie, and she went down a road. It got progressively darker as we drew nearer to a thick forest.

“It’s not actually spooky,” Elise told me. “It’s just dark.”

“There are things about the forest you don’t know, little sister!” sang Pinkie. As we traveled along the leafy path, Pinkie would start grabbing things and giving it to us to eat. She gave us these large, shiny, perfectly spherical watermelons. The “skin” was thick candy coating, and the inside was pink gummy. Pinkie shook a tree, and sparkly white specks rained down on the candy. “Add sour sprinkles to your sweet treats!” she said.

As we carried on, we ate nuts that were covered in chocolate, and had some squishy maple flavored taffy that we dipped in a caramel filled stream. After picking up a “rock” that turned out to be some kind of pastry, Elise looked closely at it. She took it from me and bit into it.

“Doesn’t this taste a little odd to you?” she whispered, handing it back. I took a bite. The texture was much different than I expected, but it was still good.

“Sort of, but not in a bad way,” I said. “Why?” Elise picked up another pastry rock and started inspecting it. With a look of horror, she leaned in to me to whisper again.

“I think this is made out of meat!” I was a vegetarian, so this was a problem for me, but I wasn’t sure why she was worried. When I asked her why it mattered, she said, “all of our animals are sweets, the only meat we have is… the people!” I laughed nervously, looking at the pastry again.

“There’s no way,” I told her. “People would know, right?”

“Everyone stopped coming to the forest after a bunch of people disappeared here last Halloween,” said Elise, still speaking quietly so that Pinkie, who was picking candy mushrooms, couldn’t hear. “The only person that comes here is my sister. I haven’t even come here since Halloween. And you know, she’s been acting a little strange… almost too happy, even for her. And some people have been going missing, but everyone thinks it’s because they’ve tried going above ground, and they got caught.”

“You sound like you think Pinkie is behind this,” I said with another laugh.

“Hey, watcha guys talkin about?” asked Pinkie as she brought us an armful of mushrooms. I laughed, taking one.

“Elise thinks you’re feeding us people,” I said jokingly. Pinkie’s smile fell instantly, and Elise noticed this. Before I could take a bite of the mushroom, Elise knocked it out of my hand and said, “don’t eat that!” Then there was a horrific scream, and we looked over to see a naked man with slightly cooked skin stumble out of a cave, and he was bound in some kind of black netting.

“HELP ME!!” he cried, but a couple of shadow-like demons grabbed him and dragged him back into the cave. Pinkie’s eyes had turned red, and she screeched at us. Elise and I hopped out of the wagon and ran for our lives, not stopping until we went through the door that led outside of the town.

“That’s not my sister!” Elise whimpered as we crept around the shadows to avoid the alarm creatures. We came to a room that was as dark as everywhere else, but the walls, floor, and ceiling glittered intensely. “The alarms can’t go in here, it’s the safe room.” There were a few people sitting around, but one stood up and walked toward us, taking off a shawl that hid her face and hair. We both gasped, seeing it was Pinkie, but she looked different. Her skin was pale and waxy, her eyes were tired and sunken in, and her pink hair was messy, dry, and brittle.

“Pinkie?” I asked in bewilderment. She nodded, then looked at Elise.

“I’ve been waiting for you to find me,” she said hoarsely, and in an emotionless tone. “I’ve been in this room since last Halloween, hoping you’d come in here for some reason. But you haven’t.”

“What’s going on? I just saw you in town!” cried Elise.

“I have to stay in here because the alarms see me as an outsider, and not one of the banished,” she explained. “Elise, that Pinkie in the town is not me, she is a demon that appeared in the forest. She’s behind all of the people disappearing, making them into sweets to plant in the forest. There are some natural sweets in there, but you can tell what is hers because of its texture. I was the only survivor last Halloween that saw her, everyone else got killed. She took away my happiness so that she’d appear to be me to everyone else. Now I can’t feel happiness at all, just all of the negative emotions.” Then she looked at me. “Who are you?”

“I’ve been transferred here from another universe, and I’m trying to get home,” I replied.

“I know how to get you home,” said Pinkie. “The people in this safe room are mostly government workers that want to rebel against this transferring thing. You need to find your way to the government building, go to the lab where they develop this technology, and have the professor hook you up to one of the chairs. They use the chairs to visit these other universes so that they can pick which people to bring to this universe. I don’t know where you came from, so this is sort of a gamble. You might get back to yours, or end up somewhere else, but it’s worth a shot.”

“So how am I going to get into this lab?” I inquired.

“Do what they do in the movies. Go in disguise, assume someone else’s identity, and just walk on through.”

“That won’t work,” said a man from the corner. “They’ve upped the security. Now there are doors that detect your DNA and match you with personnel that are permitted to be in the building. She won’t get further than the front desk… unless you cause a distraction.”

“How am I going to do that?” I asked incredulously.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out, you’re a young adult, you still have some of that teenage obnoxiousness in you,” said the man. “You had better go quickly before the alarms come back this way.”

“Pinkie, what are we going to do about the demon?” said Elise sadly.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But now that you know where I am, we can try and figure it out.”

“Elise, Pinkie, and… sir over there… I can’t thank you enough for helping me. Good luck with the demon,” I said, and the girls waved to me as I ran out of the safe room and back to the stairs. I was up in the hospital again, but decided to try and find a back door to sneak out of. Once I did, I started to ask around to get directions to the government building.

The information I needed came from a larger group of teens and adults younger than myself that were all dressed rather punky. They didn’t seem to take kindly to me because I had the lanyard that said I was a doctor around my neck, but I told them my situation. They were horrified to learn about the transferring of people from different universes, and immediately pulled out their cell phones to call all of their friends. We were quickly joined by ravers, goths, more punks, skaters, and general rebellious teenagers. Then we marched to the government building and entered.

The woman at the front desk nervously asked us what we were doing here, and a boy with a blue Mohawk told her, “we’re here to party.” Quite a few guards showed up, but the boy had been carrying a stereo, which he set on the floor and started blasting hard rock. The rest of the kids began breaking things, throwing smoke bombs, and hitting people with glow sticks. I threw a computer monitor and shattered a glass door. A man tried to apprehend me, but a skater boy shoved his skateboard into his stomach, and he fell to the floor in pain. I leaned over him and smiled.

“You’ll be fine. Trust me, I’m a doctor!” Then I took off my lanyard and dropped it on his chest, and I took his, which had a barcode on it. The skater dude ran with me further into the building as the huge group of hooligans caused massive chaos, but we were still being pursued. There were female officials riding on these weird hover disks, zooming toward us. The dude knocked one off and threw the disk to me, but a second woman managed to apprehend him. I got on the disk and flew off, being chased by women who knew how to control the things way better than I did; I was trying hard not to fall off, and I couldn’t figure out how to steer.

I somehow managed to outrun them briefly, and found my way to the lab. I went in and showed the professor the card I had, and he scanned it, then led me over to a large chair that looked like the NEMO chair from Saints Row the Third. I sat in it, and he said, “now, the key is to relax, and we’ll see you back here in a few weeks.” He stuck little electro pads to my skin, plugging the other end into ports on the chair, and stuck a pair of headphones on my head, playing some binaural beats. I drifted to sleep almost instantly.

I woke up for real, in my real bed, in my real apartment, no longer dreaming. It was really weird. I was still sleepy though, so I fell asleep again.

I was back in that same universe, but it was different. Now the government had been overruled, and people could travel between universes at will. I was just hanging out, telling the locals that this was my second time here, but then someone ran up to the group I was talking to.

“Guys! Justin Bieber is here!” he said excitedly. I narrowed my eyes.

“This universe has a Justin Bieber…?” I asked slowly.

“Oh my god, he’s only the top scholar in the entire world!” said one of the girls in the group. “He’s so intelligent, he’s made thousands of discoveries, inventions that have revolutionized the way we live, and he’s won so many Nobel prizes! He invented the treatment machines!” This was too good to be true, so when Justin Bieber himself came walking down the hall, I had to keep from laughing.

His hair was properly groomed, he wore thick, horn rimmed glasses, a sweater vest, tie, white undershirt, khaki pants, and black dress shoes. I’m sure my face was red now from holding back the urge to laugh. Since I was still known as a doctor in this universe, I shook his hand and spluttered out, “it’s nice to meet you…” We had a short conversation, and he spoke very intellectually, but I was crying from restraining myself so hard. Finally, when he walked away, I burst out in hysterical laughter. I didn’t get a chance to explain what was so funny to everyone else because Michael woke me up for my doctor’s appointment.

I uh… I don’t think this dream means anything. It was fun, though!

“Back to School” Dreams

Man, there have been a lot of dream posts lately! Well, honestly, aside from being accused of being a Weeaboo, that’s the only interesting thing going on in my life! (About the Weeaboo thing, by definition, I’m not even an Otaku. I like a very small and select group of anime, haven’t read manga since I was in high school, and have studied Japanese language and culture because HALF OF MY FAMILY IS JAPANESE. As for music and movies, all Asian media interests me, and not because they’re Asian, it’s because certain bands/artists really click with me, and most Asian horror movies are the SHIT! But just like in America, and all other countries, Asia has music, movies, cartoons, books, et cetera that just don’t appeal to me. It’s not being obsessed with the culture, it’s about enjoying the product. Japan clicks mostly with me because I spent a lot of time with the Japanese part of my family, so yeah. Word to the wise, don’t accuse someone of being something unless you know them.)

Now that my mini rant is done, let’s get back to bweezness. (Name that reference!) For a few years, I’ve had the strangest dreams about being in high school. “But Reitanna, that’s totes normal!” No, I’m not just talking about general school dreams, which practically everyone has all the time, including me, I mean dreams where I decide to go back to high school for another four years AT MY CURRENT AGE.

At the time I am writing this blog, I am twenty-four. I will be twenty-five in November. So here I am, in my dream, willingly going back to my old high school, enrolling in classes, and planning to go the full four years to graduate a second time. (I graduated in 2009, by the way.) This would somehow add my new GPA to my old one, so in all, I would potentially have a 6.0 to 7.0 GPA after my second graduation. Not only that, but the staff and teachers know how old I am, and that this is my second time around. I can pull off looking like a sixteen year old, so students would assume I was just your typical Sophomore or Junior. Nope… twenty-four year old Freshman…………………. o_o

As far as I know, going to high school for a second time is not possible, nor is adding to your previous GPA, because isn’t 4.0 the highest you can get? It’s been so long since I’ve been in school, I forget. So why am I having these dreams? It can’t be that I miss going to school, I hated high school. I didn’t have trouble as a student, no, I have always loved learning. Sure, I hated certain classes and struggled in a few of them like any teenager would, but in the end, my GPA was around 3.4, I don’t remember the exact number. After graduation, I was DONE. I wasn’t going to Grad Night, I wasn’t going to the Senior picnic, and I will NEVER go to my high school reunion. I hated a majority of the students, I wasn’t too fond of a few of the teachers (especially the one that hated Latinos for some reason), and I hated that the principal cared more about our sports program than our arts and music programs. Seriously, when it gets to a point where orchestra and choir have to fund themselves, there’s a problem.

If two football players got in a physical fight, the teachers would just laugh and say, “now come on boys, no fighting.” But if any “outcast” got in a fight, they’d be suspended! It was like a corrupt government! Not to mention, since I wasn’t on medication, I had many panic attacks. I remember a time when I was having one, and I couldn’t stop crying. I wasn’t being violent toward anyone, not even myself, and the dear old principal was shouting at me to calm down or he’d call the police. This was after my gothic phase! So I wasn’t even scary looking! How can you seriously expect a Bipolar child to just stop having a panic attack when, A, she did nothing wrong, B, she wasn’t hurting anyone, C, you’re shouting at her, and D, you threaten to call the police? You can’t call the police on a teenager that has literally done absolutely NO HARM! One that’s never done drugs, never gotten in a physical fight, doesn’t have a history of suspension or expulsion on her permanent record, and does well in school! There was absolutely no reason for their hostility, they should’ve tried getting one of the councilors to calm me down enough for me to tell them what triggered the panic attack. Maybe then, they’d realize it wasn’t me who caused a problem, but the girl who threatened to KILL ME. Yeah, fuck you Principal I-Forget-Your-Name. You were old in 2009, I hope you’ve died by now.

I enjoyed choir though, even if Mrs. Grey was a bit harsh with me, but that was because she became pretty unpleasant after her mother passed away. She was much kinder to me my Senior year when she came to terms with it, and you know what, she was an excellent choir teacher. (Fun fact! Mrs. Grey was also Adam Lambert’s high school choir teacher a couple years before she transferred to the school I went to! When he was on American Idol, she would NOT stop talking about him. XD)

I also enjoyed Photography, which I took my Senior year. Wednesdays and Thursdays were known as “Tutorial days.” This was where you only had periods 1, 3, and 5 on Wednesday, and periods 2, 4, and 6 on Thursday. For normal days, we started at 7:30 and got out at 2:30, but on Tutorial days, we got out at 2:10. YAY SHORT DAY, right? Nope, long day. Each of our three periods were two hours long, and after 2:10, you had twenty minutes of your own personal study/work time, busses still came at 2:30. Mondays were short days, also known as “Staff Development” days. Classes would start at 8:00, be much shorter, and we’d get out at 2:30. Those were nice. Er… where was I going with this? OH YEAH! So, I had Photo on Thursdays, and those two hours of that class were my favorite out of the whole week. I could stay in there all day if I had been allowed to. So, of course, there were parts of high school I did like, but I’d never want to experience it again, especially not for another four years.

I have a couple of theories. One is that I feel bad that I’ve forgotten all of the subject matter I excelled at. I could tell you all of the classes I was top student in, but could I tell you what I learned using technical terms and all that? No, and this is partly because of my suicide attempt in the summer of 2009, and partly because time has simply passed with no practice in any of those particular subjects. I also took French, which I wasn’t fond of, but I could have a conversation. Now, however, I can only tell you that I can’t speak French, I speak cheese, and that I am a grapefruit. T_T Maybe the dreams are trying to fill the part of me that was dedicated to learning, but as an adult with a job, I don’t have time to learn something new that would take more than a day at the most. The most recent things I’ve learned about were Corona Mass Ejections, Strange Matter, how fireworks make specific shapes, and buried penises. (Because science!) Maybe I miss studying, completing assignments, being given a good grade for my work… maybe I miss reading books, which I used to love, but don’t have time for anymore. Maybe I miss forcing myself to get pretty and dress cutely every day. Maybe I miss having somewhere to go every day…

Or maybe… and note that I am not an egocentric person, but I do have fantasies about overpowering common people, making them abide by laws I’ve set, you know, dictator stuff that I’d realistically never be able to do. Maybe if I had that power, I would have an ego, but years of being bullied by peers, and abused my family members have killed any self worth I had, and I didn’t have much to begin with. Maybe if I were the oldest student in high school, one that’s already graduated once, I’d feel like I had a small amount of power because of my age. I felt that way when I was the only Senior taking health class, which was full of Freshman. Some of them looked up to me because I was older, dressed interestingly, and had the highest grade in the class… (I ended with a 120%, so I didn’t even have to take the final exam.) Some feared me because they realized they couldn’t pull any of their dumb Freshman tricks on me that would fool their fellow fourteen year old. I always felt so confident in that class, something I rarely felt, because I had seniority. Maybe, since I’ve spent most of my life lacking confidence, the dreams are trying to let me experience confidence and power by having had accomplished something none of the other students had, and by going for it a second time.

Those are the only reasons I can come up with for having these unrealistic dreams… I mean, dreams are usually unrealistic, but this one has occurred extremely often since I graduated from beauty school. Heh, when in beauty school, I was learning from books, taking tests, putting theory into practice… so I think my first theory may be the correct one. Whenever I think about all of the things I had learned being forgotten, and my lack of studying in my current life, I feel genuinely sad, unfulfilled, and… dumb. I am not actually stupid, though forgetful, but if I can’t even tell you how to use a simple Punnett square, something I used to be able to do with my eyes closed, I feel dumb! I can’t tell you most of the scientific names of animal groups I studied in Zoology, nor can I figure out the half-life of radioactive atoms! I can’t even tell you how F-Stops work! At least I can tell you why Pluto isn’t a planet… *Sarcastically twirls finger.*

I guess you lose part of yourself when you discover that you, a previously well educated person, have become uneducated. It hurts, because I don’t want to be just another uneducated American slob! At least I have street smarts, but I’ve always considered book smarts to be just as important. I mean, I used to read ahead in science books to chapters we hadn’t even gotten to yet. Now… all I can tell you is what an atom is composed of, but not how Ions form… I feel lost. That’s what I think the dreams are telling me, that I miss learning. God, what a downer.

“Impossible” Dreams

They say you can’t do certain things in dreams; feel pain, taste food, read text, see your hands, or die. However, I’m sure I’m not the only one in the world that has experienced all of these things while sleeping.

A few nights ago, I had a dream that I was being tortured, which is one of my greatest fears. I had people drilling into the middle of each of my teeth, they slit my fingers, and even opened my chest. Now, if this were happening in real life, the pain would be unbearable, but in the dream, it was just sharp pains, though I was screaming like I would if it were agonizing. Then, night before last, I had a dream where I was bitten by a snake with long fangs, a giant spider, and stung by a scorpion. The level of pain was more realistic this time. It was sharp, hot, and after the bites and sting, there was a dull ache in the spots where it happened.

I’ve had dreams were I’m in a maze full of different desserts. These are lovely! So many cakes, pastries, pies, EVERYTHING! And I could taste all of it, though they weren’t as sweet as the real thing. I remember waking up from these dreams and feeling severely disappointed that I hadn’t actually been eating sweets.

The reading text and seeing your hands thing really confuses me. Supposedly, if there are words in your dream, they will be blurry and unreadable. Also, if you try to look at your own hands, they too will be blurry and misshapen. Despite this “fact,” I have read text on cell phones, computers, books, and signs in my dreams on a number of occasions. I have even been able to clearly see my own hands.

Lastly, “if you die in your dream, you die in real life.” I usually wake up before I die in dreams out of sheer fright or shock. There was one where I found myself unable to breathe, and when I woke up, I was gasping for air. Turns out, I had been holding my breath for a few seconds before I woke up. That was scary. However, despite me waking up before I die in most dreams, I have died before. The only two instances I can remember was drowning in the ocean, and dying in a car crash.

When I was younger, I almost drowned while swimming in the ocean, and this was the start of my fear of bodies of water. Rain and showers are no problem because they are not actual bodies. I think my dream was forcing me to remember that experience, except, due to my fear, I actually drowned. I was in the middle of the ocean, no land to be seen, and clinging desperately to a pool floatie. For no reason at all, my hands slipped from the floatie, and I fell beneath the water. It was so dark and cold, and I couldn’t breathe. My vision faded to black for a good three seconds before it switched to a completely unrelated dream about sofas.

After being in my first car crash at the beginning of July, I’ve been terrified of vehicles, mostly when I’m in one, no matter how good the driver is. I’ve also been having way too many dreams about being in crashes, and I’ve died in one of these dreams. It was horrible, in the same car, we hit like twenty different vehicles, each getting worse as we went. After each hit, we lost more control of the car, and eventually, we had a front collision with a tree. I staggered out of the car and fell to the forest floor… we somehow made it to the forest… but it was way more foggy than it had been before. The couple that had been driving came out too, bloody and injured, and they checked the back seat where I had been riding. I saw my own body, broken and covered in blood, and I was not moving. I felt my own head where most of the blood on my corpse had been coming from, and looking at my hand, saw a large amount of blood. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I turned to see Death, wearing the stereotypical black robe and holding a scythe. He did not speak, but gestured for me to follow him. Then the dream switched to something about the Simpsons…

I have not done extensive research on dreams, so I am far from an expert. Everything I say now is all just guess work.

In the dreams where I died, what I think happened was my subconscious was bringing back experiences that affected me so strongly, it caused fear of the thing I could’ve died from. I’ve had dreams that introduce other fears as well, mainly sticking with the emotional approach by showing Erin, having me experience myself without my medication, or showing me “Bad” Michael. “Bad” Michael is the version of my boyfriend that I always feared he would be, but isn’t. He’s insensitive, abusive, only wants me for sex, and practically hates me, but when I wake up and look into the real Michael’s eyes, I know that he is the true one, and that I don’t have to worry.

As for the other “impossible” things, I think our brains are trying to base feeling pain, tasting food, reading text, and seeing our hands from our own memories. We know what it’s like to experience pain and taste, and we know what words and our hands look like. For me, the words and hands are extremely clear, but the pain and taste aren’t usually as extreme as it would be in real life. It’s like your brain is making imperfect clones of your memories, and trying to incorporate them into dream places you’ve never been before.

But sometimes… sometimes… I fling myself off of the edge of something in my dream… only to awake and find myself on the floor and in pain. XD

What kind of “impossible” dreams have you had? Do you experience pain? Have you ever died? Feel free to share your experiences!

I Dreamt a Documentary

This post might be a little disturbing, so just as a warning, you may not want to read this one if you’re sensitive to certain subjects. It’s also very long.

My doctor just recently switched my sleeping medication because Ambien stopped working for me, and I took it last night. It worked well, but I’m not sure if this crazy dream was a result of the medication, or if it was just my sick mind fucking around with me again. I have a lot of disturbing dreams, but often the only nightmares that affect me when I wake up are the ones involving emotional distress, usually caused by reliving my childhood, coming face to face with Erin, or being unable to take my medication. They say your greatest enemy is yourself, and that couldn’t be more true. My greatest nightmares make me experience the side of me that I’m afraid of. Anything else, no matter how disturbing, doesn’t usually get to me.

Now, I’m not sure if this certain dream is actually bothering me, or if I just want to document it because it was so… dynamic and detailed. It was pretty damn crazy, I’ll give it that! Even though the memory of the dream isn’t really upsetting me while awake, it upset my dream self, and I need to write it down. Dreams fascinate me, so I like to reflect back on the really complex ones to try and understand what dreaming actually is. I’m no expert, so I’m still just as stumped as anyone else, but even so, it’s still somewhat helpful.

I watch a lot of documentaries on different types of murderers; serial killers, mass murderers, spree killers, impulse killers, et cetera. I do this for multiple reasons that range from research to just entertainment. It also makes me feel better to say, “well, at least I’m not as crazy as that person.” Certain common elements bug me when they go over the killer’s past, and that is history of being sexually abused, and torturing and/or killing animals as a child. We hear these things all of the time, and it’s the only part that ever disturbs me. I mention this because it plays a big part in this dream.

Enough beating around the bush, let’s get down to business. Remember, everything I say is fictional (except when I go over certain elements of my own past) and only occurred in the dream. Any relevance to actual people or occurrences are purely coincidental. The dream starts out with me checking my YouTube comments, and I received one from the director of a recently released online documentary. I think the director was a Freelancer, so he posted his work on his own channel instead of it being produced and distributed as a film. Seeing the comment didn’t surprise me, and I recognized the username. The comment read, “it’s done, here it is,” and then there was a link to a video. Clicking the link brought me to a video called, “A Broken Mind: The [name I can’t remember] Story (Part 1).” In the “related” section of the page were parts two and three. The description read, “the upsetting story of [name I can’t remember], one of the most disturbed murderers of America in the last decade. Special thanks go to…” Then there was a list of names of people on the crew, people who were interviewed, people involved in the case, and so on. “Reitanna Seishin” was listed in these credits, and next to it was a link to my YouTube channel.

None of this surprised me, and I remembered being asked to be a part of the documentary. At the time, my dream self did not provide my conscious self with the information as to why I was in the film, or what role I played, so I clicked “play” on the video and began to watch. The view of the dream changed to where, instead of watching the video on a computer screen, it was like my eyes were the camera lens. It was pretty surreal, honestly. The issue I had in this dream was that the names kept changing, specifically the murderer that the documentary was about. I can’t remember all of the names it changed to, so I’ll settle on the one that stuck out; Carl Dawson. I will have to make up names for everyone else, so bear with me.

I don’t remember the exact date this happened, but it was within the last ten years, and apparently it happened in Alpine. I lived in Alpine from ages twelve to fourteen, so I’m going to guess that the time frame had to be between 2002 and 2004 at least. Carl Dawson was a couple years older than me, so he was in high school when I was in middle school. The film went over Carl’s past, and it was this that upset my dream self.

Carl’s real parents were killed in a car accident when he was a baby, and later was adopted by a couple with the last name “Dawson,” so he inherited that name as well. We’ll call the woman Anne Dawson, and the man Will Dawson. At the time they adopted Carl, they already had a three year old biological son, and we’ll call him Kyle. Pictures were shown of the family and the house, and these pictures included birthday photos that were mostly of Carl and Kyle. Carl had medium-long, wavy blonde hair, and Kyle had short brunette hair. Anne honestly looked like a meth addict. She had badly bleached blonde hair with dark brunette roots showing, alarming bags under her eyes, yellow teeth, and just looked pretty trashy. Will was a little on the chubby side, but he was tall, looked strong, had greying hair, and was very intimidating. The house was also messy and poorly taken care of; you could tell the family didn’t make a lot of money. They also had a grey cat.

The parents had a history of drug abuse, alcoholism, and could never hold steady jobs. On the upside, Anne cared very dearly for her sons, even if one of them wasn’t her own flesh and blood. However, her relationship with Will wasn’t a healthy one, and Will would beat the shit out of her when he was drunk. He didn’t hit the children, but I consider what he did much, much worse. This is the part that upset me, and it’s also the reason why Anne and Will fought so much.

Will had a habit of molesting Kyle, and poor Carl fell victim to it as well. Unfortunately, Anne didn’t even know about it until Carl was two, and his behavior toward Will started to change. He became afraid of him, less talkative, and didn’t like to be touched by anyone. Kyle had always had behavioral problems, being hyper active, somewhat violent, and Anne had to keep him from hurting the cat. She assumed he was just that way, but Carl had shown noticeable changes that made her worried. She tried asking Carl if daddy ever hit him, and he said, “daddy told me not to tell.” She ended up calling her best friend, saying she suspected her husband was abusing Carl, but she had to hang up quickly when she heard Will walk through the front door.

Then, when she was changing Carl’s diaper, she noticed bruises around his lower body, and came to the horrifying conclusion that her husband had raped their adopted son. This caused a huge fight between Anne and Will, resulting in her being savagely beaten in front of both boys. Will also took the opportunity to tell her that he had been doing the same thing to Kyle for years, and that if she knew what was good for her, she’d keep her mouth shut. Will threatened to kill her if she even tried leaving. Anne was sickened by this entire thing, but couldn’t help but wonder why Kyle hadn’t shown drastic changes in behavior like Carl had. Then she figured that all of his behavioral problems must’ve come from the abuse in the first place.

Kyle got less “attention” than Carl did as the boys grew older, and that’s because Kyle was now “too old” for Will’s interests. Kyle continued to be a very bad kid, torturing the cat, killing random animals outside, breaking objects, fighting at school, and hitting his adopted brother. Carl spoke less and less, and became very afraid of people, including other kids at school, and this caused him to be bullied. It didn’t help that their family was poor, so his clothes were shabby. He spent a lot of time in his room where he’d pin up doodles he made on lined paper to the wall. Even as childish scribbles, they weren’t very happy looking.

Things escalated for Carl as time passed by. Kyle was hitting puberty, so now, on top of his preexisting problems, he now had to deal with hormones. Being raped by his own father messed with his mentality, and made his view of the real world and social interactions very warped. Kyle started sneaking into Carl’s room at night and molesting him as well. With both his adopted father and brother sexually abusing him, and with his mother constantly drowning her sorrows in substances, Carl’s trust in humanity was broken, and so was he. The only living creature he seemed to want to even be around was the cat.

When Carl entered middle school, he was still quiet and afraid of people, but he was now entering the transition into manhood. On his first day in sixth grade, he wasn’t sure where his first class was, and a seventh grade girl named Mary (this was her actual name in the dream) noticed how lost he looked. She was very petite, having long, straight dark brunette hair, peachy skin, and was wearing a black shirt, grey skirt, and black leggings that stopped below her knees. Lastly, her shoes were simple black flats, and wore no socks. I’m not sure why she stuck out to me so fiercely, but I think it was because this documentary was showing this past segment as if the camera man had been there while it happened, which was impossible. There were quite a lot of moments like that, some I’d rather not go into detail about.

Carl immediately took a shine to Mary, but he wasn’t used to speaking to people, so he was very nervous. He stuttered when he spoke to her, stumbled over words, said words wrong, and sometimes said the wrong thing completely. This didn’t bother her at all, being smart enough to recognize shyness, and being kind and confident enough to tell him it was alright. After this first encounter, Mary considered Carl her friend, and he’d follow her around like a puppy following its master. He practically idolized her because she was so caring and nice to him, and she even stood up to his bullies for him. Having a girl stand up for him didn’t emasculate him, but caused him to fall for her even harder.

It seemed like life was getting just a little better for Carl. The police were called by their neighbors after a particularly violent outdoor domestic disturbance between Will and Anne, and Anne took the chance to tell the police that Will had raped their sons. She didn’t know about Kyle doing the same thing to Carl because Carl wouldn’t talk about it. Will was arrested, and Anne took her children and cat to live in a small house in Alpine (I guess they were living just outside of the town beforehand, so they didn’t have to change schools). It wasn’t much nicer than their old house, and was even a bit smaller. Carl didn’t mind, because the house just happened to be right next door to Mary’s, and could even see her bedroom window from his own.

However, even though one of his life’s horrors was out of the picture, it didn’t change the fact that Carl’s mind had been severely messed up. Even after Kyle started “visiting” him less frequently, Carl still viewed the world very differently. He and Mary entered high school, but he never asked her out, and she was oblivious to the fact that he was madly in love with her. Little did she know, his “love” was actually a very unhealthy obsession. He wrote her name all over his walls, drew pictures of her, and watched her through her window using a cheap telescope. Whenever she had any interaction with another boy at school, Carl would draw pictures of himself killing them in many different and horrific ways. In these pictures, it always depicted Mary praising him for “saving” her from the filthy men of the world.

Kyle was a senior, and still a very bad kid, committing juvenile crimes, abusing drugs, and getting violent for pointless reasons. After school one day, he actually came up behind Mary, wrapped his arms around her, and tried to feel her up, but she turned around and pushed him away, shouting at him. Carl flared up as well, telling his brother to keep his hands off of her, but he punched Carl in the face and told him to shut his mouth, or he’d regret it. Mary didn’t take too kindly to this, so she socked Kyle right in the face as hard as she could. Enraged, and not afraid to hit a girl, Kyle lunged at her, but a teacher stopped him. He was suspended for about a week.

This would be the biggest week of Carl’s life. Anne worked two jobs, so she was rarely ever home, even for days at a time. One of these jobs was prostitution, so she was mostly gone at night. Kyle was now forced to stay at home for a week, and due to Carl’s and Mary’s retaliation, he was extremely hostile toward Carl, hitting him whenever he had the chance. Carl constructed a home made lock to install on his door to keep Kyle out of his room so that he’d finally have peace, and he spent his time spying on Mary through the window, writing in his journal, or writing and drawing on his wall. Some of it was written on scraps of paper pinned to it, but most of it was written on the wall itself. It showed obvious obsession over Mary, and when she couldn’t be seen through her window, he’d stare at places he had written her name.

Carl also had gotten his hands on an inexpensive digital camera that could take low quality pictures and video, though it wasn’t capable of recording audio. (I’ve actually had a camera like this, so that’s probably how my dream fabricated it.) He didn’t use it much… at first.

Kyle had recently started going out with a girl from another school named Wendy (actual name in the dream), so during his suspension, he’d bring her over. This was actually the first time Carl had ever seen her, and he found her very beautiful. Incredibly quickly, he became just as obsessed over her as he was with Mary, and started writing her name all over his walls as well. There were now two girls in his life he was madly in “love” with, and Wendy didn’t even treat him nicely. Why did he become obsessed with her? Maybe he idolized beautiful women because one had never harmed him in the way that his father and brother had. He even considered his own mother a lost cause because she was so far gone anyway, and she was never able to stop the abuse. Plus, she was so junked up, she had long lost her beauty, if she even had any to begin with.

Carl had an unhealthy obsession with spying on Kyle and Wendy when they had sex, and his obsession with Wendy was already unhealthy enough. Midway into the week, Kyle spotted Carl and became enraged, as was wont to happen, and Carl tried running away. Kyle, only wearing his underwear, chased Carl outside and grabbed him, tackling him to the ground and punching him repeatedly in the face. Wendy had gotten dressed and followed them, and she simply watched with satisfaction. Seeing Wendy with her arms crossed and smile on her face became Carl’s breaking point, and he went into a sort of blind rage where he had no control of what he was doing, and didn’t even realize he was doing it. This caused him to summon strength he had never used before, and he pushed Kyle off of him, standing and grabbing a nearby shovel that was sitting in the yard. Terrified that Carl had a weapon and a bloodthirsty look in his eyes, Kyle and Wendy ran back into the house, but didn’t think to close the door behind them.

The two hid behind the couch, and once Carl entered with the shovel, Kyle jumped out and kicked it out of his hands. Wendy ran back outside to keep away from the danger, sitting against the side of the house and crying. Now that Carl had no weapon, Kyle thought he’d have the upper hand, but was proven wrong. The two fought violently, both getting covered in cuts and bruises, and Carl had landed a punch that broke Kyle’s nose. Kyle pushed Carl into the wall next to their mother’s open bedroom door, and Carl ran inside, grabbing the gun that Anne kept under her bed for protection. This made Kyle frightened again, holding up his hands and backing away, trying to apologize to his brother. As they slowly made their way back into the living room, Carl was breathing heavily, but the gun he pointed at Kyle was held in very steady hands. Kyle attempted to dash out the open door, but was shot in the head, collapsing to the floor.

Hearing the gunshot, Wendy screamed and made to run away from the house, but Carl had come out and smacked her in the temple with the gun handle. She fell to the ground, still conscious, and started screaming when Carl dragged her back into the house, where he shot her in the head multiple times. Both her and Kyle were dead, blood covering the floor, and some splattered on the nearest wall.

Alone next door, Mary was doing her homework when she heard the yelling coming from Carl’s house, then became horrified when the first shot was fired. It was followed by a series of female screams, and the next few shots caused her to run downstairs and out her front door. She sprinted over to Carl’s, seeing the door was open, and she ran in to see what had happened. This had not been a good choice. Mary screamed upon seeing the two dead bodies on the floor, and an unrecognizable Carl with a gun in his hand. At this point, Carl had come out of his blind rage, but he didn’t regret what he had done. Realizing she had stumbled upon a dangerous situation, Mary immediately made to turn around to run through the door again, but Carl grabbed her from behind, wrapping an arm around her throat, and choking her. She struggled, but became limp as she lost consciousness.

When Mary woke up, she was lying on the floor of Carl’s room, which she had never been in before because he had never even invited her over to his house. She soon realized that her hands were tied behind her back, and her ankles were tied together very tightly, so she could only squirm with fright. Her eyes scanned the room, and she saw hers and Wendy’s names written on the wall in multiple places, as well as obsessive expressions of love, drawings of the girls, and drawings of Carl killing other guys. Mary also spotted the telescope pointed at the window, which she knew was right next to her own bedroom window. The next thing she noticed was Carl scratching out Wendy’s name with a knife, though he hadn’t gotten to all of them.

Scared, Mary demanded Carl to tell her what was going on. He knelt next to her, telling her how pretty she was, and that he loved her so much. He took the knife and cut into his palm, which didn’t seem to hurt him, and used his index finger to touch the blood, applying it to Mary’s lips as if it were lipstick. This, naturally, did not calm her down, but scared her even more. Then Carl took the digital camera and started taking pictures of her, showing her each one after he took it. He also leaned his head close to hers, taking a picture of himself with her. Mary told him he was sick, and that she regretted ever being his friend, but this angered Carl. He slashed her upper arm with the knife as he shouted about how she was just like everyone else, that he couldn’t trust anyone because everyone he ever cared about only ended up hurting him. After being maimed, Mary tried a different approach, apologizing to him and saying that she did care for him, and that she could help him.

Carl used the digital camera to take a video, propped it on his bed, made perfectly sure that it was pointed at Mary, and began stabbing her repeatedly in the chest. When Mary was dead, he untied her, grabbed the camera, and filmed her lifeless body up close for about a minute. Then he turned it off. He didn’t take care of any of the three bodies in the house, but instead sat on his bed and wrote in his journal, explaining about what he had done in a fit of anger, and then what he had done when he had come back to himself.

A lot of this part of the story was told through showing the scenes of what actually happened, which, as I mentioned before, would’ve been impossible. However, I soon found the role I played in the documentary. I was chosen by the director to interview Carl’s parents, Will having been released from prison just a year before filming. They lived in the same house, and Will and Anne had “found God,” so they no longer indulged in unhealthy and criminal vices. Will said Jesus had come to him in a dream, saying he’d be forgiven if he vowed to never harm another human being, so he believed he was saved. I asked them questions about how Carl was as a child, and about everything that happened in their household, so a good chunk of the story was told by them. The rest of the information had been gathered from reading Carl’s journal, observing his bedroom wall, and recovering photos and video footage from the camera.

To my conscious self, there was still the mystery of why I was interviewing them in the first place. I watched myself interacting with the cat, who was now very old, as well as being led around the house by Anne while she told me where everything happened. Will was raking leaves outside when I asked him questions, but I didn’t want to spend too much time with him because of his disgusting past with his children. The director did his fair share of interviewing as well, so I was not alone.

We went to the police department to ask the officers involved with the case some questions, and they told us everything they could legally disclose. We also interviewed the families of the victims… and this was when I found out more than three people had been killed. It was one of those “but Kyle, Wendy, and Mary were not the only ones to lose their lives to Carl” moments to increase suspense. Two more girls had been murdered in Carl’s bedroom, but his would-be sixth victim had escaped her fate.

I watched myself being led up to Carl’s old room by Anne, and she opened the door, turning on the light. The blood had been cleaned up, the digital camera and journal had been taken in by police, but everything on the walls was left the way it had been. The police had taken pictures of the walls as evidence, and Anne and Will decided not to clean them up as a reminder of how they broke their adopted son. It was a form of self punishment. I examined the walls, seeing the names “Wendy” and “Mary” crossed out by a knife’s blade. There were three other names written on the wall as well, but I can only remember the name of one of the two other girls that were killed: Morgan. We’ll call the other girl Sandra. Both “Morgan” and “Sandra” were crossed out, but the third name was not, and that was because Carl only crossed the names out after he killed them.

There were poems, drawings, and words of longing expressed toward the three girls he captured after Mary. He had fallen in “love” with them the moment he saw them, stalked them, kidnapped them, and brought them to his house all within the span of a few days. First to get caught after Mary was Sandra, and as she lay unconscious and tied up on the floor, Carl wrote about her on his wall. This is what she would wake up to, as well as the dead body of Mary laying right next to her. According to his journal, he had already met Morgan and the third girl by the time Sandra was taken, so his obsession over them were on the walls as well.

Using his mother’s makeup, he applied heavy eye shadow and lipstick to Sandra’s face, and then took pictures of her like he had with Mary. He explained to her that she was a beautiful girl, confessed his love to her, but said that her beauty had made her as corrupt as the rest of the horrible people on this planet. “Even though I love you, you have to die,” Carl said, “but we have to learn to let go of the things we care about.” She screamed as he set the camera up on his bed, pointing it at her and using the video function to record a video. He watched her struggle for a few minutes, and she pleaded with him to let her go, that she didn’t even know who he was, but the camera was unable to record her voice.

Carl ended Sandra’s life by beating her mercilessly with the shovel he had almost attacked Kyle with. Even after her body stopped moving, he hit her face constantly, and by the time he grabbed the camera to show the details of her body, her face was unrecognizable. After the video was stopped, Carl untied her, left her body where it was, used his knife to scratch out her name in the various places he had written it on the wall, and sat on his bed to write the event in his journal.

Next to come was Morgan, who actually was one of my friends at my middle school at the time. This is the reason I could remember her name. She woke up on Carl’s bed, but was able to see Mary’s and Sandra’s corpses on the floor, which was stained with huge amounts of blood. Carl was sitting next to her, stroking her brown hair, and she started crying and whimpering. He said, “even though you’re a few years younger than me, I still find you so beautiful.” Once again, he confessed his love for her, and she asked him if he had raped her. Carl was overcome with rage and yelled at her, saying he would never do such a thing, that he was insulted she’d even think that. “Don’t you understand? I love you, Morgan! I don’t ever want to hurt you!” he said. She asked why she was tied up, and Carl responded by saying that beautiful women need to die so that they don’t hurt him or anyone else ever again. He somehow didn’t count killing as “hurting” someone, but felt that pain was more of an emotional thing, and that’s what he meant by “I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

While Morgan had been passed out, Carl had dressed her in one of his mother’s dresses, which was a little too big for her. After explaining that she needed to die, he did her makeup, but cut his hand again, running it over her hair and tinting it red. It was now damp and slightly sticky. Carl then told her he’d spare her life if she smiled for all of the pictures he took of her, so she did, even smiling for the ones that Carl included himself in. Of course, when he was done, he told Morgan that he lied, and set the camera up on the bedside table to video record her. She pleaded with him to spare her, but he held up the gun he used to kill Kyle and Wendy, then emptied the two remaining bullets into her head. As usual, Carl filmed her body, then left it on his bed as he crossed out her name, and added another entry to his journal.

The name of the third would-be victim sent me into confusion and distress. I watched my face fall while my eyes scanned the wall, seeing certain things that I recognized. Carl had drawn Divel and Sticky the Female Mad Man in some places, which were two of my very first characters that I invented in middle school. I found the name “Kara” written everywhere, included in the mess of obsession. “Kara” is my real name, and I definitely did not remember being kidnapped. While this was filmed, the director explained to me that he asked me to help him with the documentary because I had been the only person who survived Carl’s killing spree. I was so confused, I started crying, asking him how that was possible when I had never even met him.

Apparently I had met him. In fact, stalking me was the only reason he had discovered Morgan. The scene changed to back at the police station, where they handed over the journal for us to read. The officer turned to the first page that mentioned my name, and it told the story of how Carl and I met.

He was in high school, and I was in middle school, but Alpine was a small town that I often walked around in with my friends, or even alone. I didn’t feel unsafe there; nothing bad had happened… that I knew of. I had met Carl at the grocery store not too far from my apartment, but I’ve always been pretty afraid of people myself because I have my fair share of mental problems coupled with a traumatic past, though I later admitted to myself that Carl’s situation was much worse than mine. I encountered him while picking out some candy, and ran straight into him as I exited the aisle. Shyness being one of my flaws, I avoided eye contact as I apologized repeatedly, stumbling over my words like I always did in front of strangers. I had dropped my candy, and Carl picked it up for me, handing it back.

“Are you shy?” he asked in a surprisingly quiet voice that had a bit of a stutter. My fear of people made me want to get away from him and out of the store as quickly as possible, which was normal for me, but the question intrigued me too much to make an excuse to purchase my candy and go. I finally looked him in the eyes, and I could see there was something very dark behind them. He was so pale and sickly looking, and his expression was completely blank. I wasn’t sure if I was afraid of him, or even more curious. I told him I wasn’t very good around people, and he said he had the same problem. I tended to get along better with boys anyway, even since I was a young child, so meeting one with fear or social interaction made me feel a little more comfortable.

Carl followed me as I bought the candy, and then we sat outside to talk. I shared the candy with him, and he told me that he’s only had one person he’s felt comfortable enough to really talk with, and that was his friend Mary, who had moved away recently. Now he had no friends, was bullied constantly, and life at home was less than desirable. I told him I was bullied too, that many of my only friends had been special education kids when I was in sixth grade. Even though I had never been in a special education class in my entire life, I was called a “retard” because I hung out with them, but the reason I hung out with them was because they were the only ones who were nice to me. When I entered seventh grade, I changed the way I dressed to fit in, and stopped hanging around my old friends to try and stop the bullying, which was a very unkind thing for me to do, and to this day, I’m not proud of my decisions. Bullying didn’t stop, but I was able to make new friends, one of them having been Morgan at the time.

We actually connected a lot even though he was older, and he offered to walk me home, saying it wasn’t safe to go anywhere alone. I humored him because I was enjoying his company, so we went back to my apartment complex, and I said goodbye to him. He asked me for my phone number before I headed up the stairs so that he could talk to me if things got bad for him, so I wrote it down and gave it to him. He watched me as I entered my apartment, which was on the second story.

Reading this entry caused heavily repressed memories to return, and it terrified me. The director asked me if I was remembering something, so I filled in the blanks, the things that Carl had not been able to write about in his journal.

Carl didn’t call me for a few days, but when he finally did, he sounded like he had been crying. He said something really bad happened, and that he wanted to talk to me, but in person. I told him to come over, and we could walk around while he told me what was wrong. I met him outside, then we left the complex, and he asked me to come to his house so that he was in a place where he felt more comfortable. I was nervous, but agreed, so we walked to his house.

As I read the journal entries about me, I learned that, during those days I hadn’t heard from Carl, he had been stalking me. He followed me to school, watched me from afar while I was at break or lunch, saw me talking to Morgan in PE, and followed me home. He sat outside my apartment, staring up at my window, which I usually shut the curtains to. I kept the actual window open to let cool air in because I hate getting too hot, so he could hear what I was doing. I usually listened to music while drawing or doing crafts, but I also had an old hobby where I used my dolls to record plays and stories on an old tape recorder. I had actually done this since I was little, which eventually evolved into my interest in video making and narrations.

Morgan was mentioned a lot after seeing her with me at school, and he had stalked her as well. Then the journal mentioned that he had killed Morgan, and now I was next to be taken for the sake of cleansing humanity, though Carl admitted in the entry that I was less of a cancer to the world than most people he’s met. Still, to him, I was pretty, and pretty girls will do nothing but hurt others, just like all men will. There were even doodles of Divel and STFMM in the journal, and it never told me how he even knew about those characters.

Upon entering Carl’s house, I immediately saw the bodies of a teenage boy and girl lying on a large brown stain near a wall. When I was younger, I was much less desensitized to gore, and was definitely afraid of death, so this was a terrifying sight for me. Before I could let out any sort of scream, Carl had grabbed me and put his arm around my throat, choking me until I passed out just as he had with Mary.

I woke up, wrists and ankles tied together, inside Carl’s bedroom in front of the door, which was closed, but I had a full view of the three dead girls in the room. I recognized the one on the bed as Morgan, and I started crying. Carl had been sitting on the bed, watching me as he flipped a knife over and over in his hands. He smiled as he stood, and then knelt next to me, a digital camera in his hands. “Don’t be scared,” he said, “you’re much more beautiful when you smile. See, Morgan was smiling…” Carl then showed me the pictures of Morgan, and she had indeed been smiling, despite being tied up and wearing way too much makeup. Then he showed me the video of him killing her, and told me that pretty girls have to die so that they don’t hurt people, and even though I was a lot like him, I was no exception.

I have been convinced throughout my life that I am not at all pretty, and that stems from the fact that I look exactly like Erin. I told Carl that I wasn’t really that pretty, but he insisted that I was beautiful and that he loved me. “But even you have hurt me,” he said with spite, and he showed me a comic drawn on lined paper of him killing a boy that looked familiar to me, and then showed a girl that looked like me smiling about it. “You’re dating this boy,” he stated. It was true that I had recently started going out with a boy named Lance. “I almost thought you were the exception, but I was wrong.”

I was scared an confused, wondering how he expected me to feel the same way about him if we only just met, and spent barely an hour together. Carl said this is why pretty girls need to be eliminated, because they can’t help but hurt people, even when they’re not trying. He compared them to all men, but said men are different because they know they’re hurting people, and they enjoy it. I asked him why he thought he was different than other men, and he said, “because I’ve discovered the truth.”

Just like he had with the other girls in the room, Carl applied heavy makeup to my face, but I was still wearing the clothes I had left my house in, which I later assumed were pretty enough for him. He took pictures of me, showing me each one in turn, but I was disgusted by the terrible makeover, especially since I had become obsessed with trying to look beautiful to fit in at school. Then Carl set up the camera on his bed, recording a video of me, and standing over me with the knife. I was scared out of my mind and screamed as loud as I could. I was always told my scream could break glass, which was not true obviously, but it was still a pretty effective distraction.

However, Carl was distracted by a second scream from downstairs, and he seemed to panic, backing away from me as running footsteps came up the stairs. I watched as a woman, who I later found out was Anne, his mother, burst through the door. She saw the bodies, and then looked at me. Anne bravely wrestled the knife out of her son’s hands, and it fell next to me. My hands were tied behind my back, but I was able to sit up, grab it, and with difficulty, cut the rope around my wrists. Anne had Carl pinned to the floor as I cut the rope binding my ankles, and she screamed at me to run, so I did. Not wanting to stay in the house, I ran to the closest public store and told them to call the police, that people had been murdered.

The memories were even more vivid when the officer showed me the photos Carl had taken of me, as well as the video. I felt a little sick as I watched myself about to be murdered, and then escape, but the camera hadn’t been shut off as Anne fought with Carl. He managed to throw her off of him and grab the knife, and Anne backed out of the frame. He went after her, and everything was still for a couple of minutes. Then Carl fell to the floor in front of the camera, the knife falling out of his hands, the open wound on his throat bleeding profusely.

The officer turned the camera off, explaining to us that it continued to record Carl’s dead body for a good five minutes before the SD card finally ran out of space. It was concluded that he had killed himself. What I didn’t understand was, why didn’t I remember any of this?

They told me that, after the incident, I was put into therapy, but it wasn’t doing any good. I was losing sleep, and when I did sleep, I was plagued with nightmares, reliving the event. After a few weeks, I told the therapist that I just wanted to forget, so she decided to tell me about an experimental treatment that involved hypnotism. I didn’t believe in that stuff, but I was willing to try it. After being hypnotized, the therapist was able to wipe my memories of the experience, and even meeting Carl in the first place.

It wasn’t explained in the dream how I didn’t hear about my escape from people who read the newspaper or watched the news on TV, but I had heard about the other murders, and that someone got away alive. In reality, forgetting the event would be impossible, and there’s no way they wouldn’t have reported about the one survivor. I’m guessing that it’s possible (in the dream) that they kept my identity a secret, saying there was an anonymous survivor, so I’m going to assume that’s what happened.

The documentary switched back to me speaking with Anne, and she told me that, after I escaped, Carl had thrown her off. She backed away as he pointed the knife at her, but told him that she was sorry she couldn’t have saved him from the torture he endured, that no one deserved what happened to him. She was sure that Carl’s real parents were up in Heaven, looking down at their poor baby living in Hell, and that there was no way Anne was ever going to be up there with them after death, but she hopes they know how sorry she was. After hearing all of this, Carl had started crying, and then slit his own throat, killing himself.

The film ended with a scene of me before I had discovered the truth of my involvement, petting the old cat and smiling. The director’s voice over said, “some speculate that Carl did not kill himself, but that Anne had grabbed his hand holding the knife and forced him to cut his own throat. There’s no proof of this, but it’s this point that makes the story very mysterious. Did Carl actually commit suicide, or did Anne Dawson kill her adopted son? We may never know, and Anne certainly denies the allegation. Nearly a decade after the tragedy, Kara has remembered what she experienced, and it may take some time for her to really come to terms with it. The families of the victims give words of encouragement, hoping that she values the life that was almost taken from her. Carl Dawson’s story remains a dark stain on history, one that is impossible to forget, no matter how hard you try.”

After watching all three parts of the documentary, I sat away from my computer and sighed, wiping the tears that had come from my eyes. My dream self had known exactly what the film contained even before I watched it, having remembered everything during filming, but it was a massive shock to my conscious self. Other than the tears, my dream self didn’t seem to express how I felt about the situation, but left a comment under the third part. It said, “this turned out very good, I’m glad to have been a part of it.”

Then the dream changed to my male rat Sammy actually being a girl, and the reason she was so fat was because she was pregnant. Within twelve hours, she gave birth, the babies grew fur, opened their eyes, and were running around my apartment. I had to round them up and put them in a cage. It was as if the previous dream, so complex and detailed, never happened.

It’s not often that I remember a dream so clearly, and I’m surprised I was able to recall almost everything. This entire post is almost eight thousand words long, and I doubt anyone has read this whole thing. It doesn’t matter to me, I just needed to document it, but I wanted to share it just in case people are interested in reading the whole thing. I feel a little better after getting this out, but my throat feels tight when I remember what poor Carl had to go through, and even what Kyle went through until he started doing the same thing.

I’m not sure what this dream means. Maybe it’s telling me I will lose my life by being murdered someday, maybe it’s telling me I will escape from a murderer. Maybe it’s simply telling me to value my life while I can. Or maybe it was showing me some sick, subconscious fantasy combining my fear of people with my fear of experiencing a painful death. It’s no secret that, even though I don’t fear my life ending, I am afraid of being tortured or dying painfully. That’s why I am able to write “Muffins,” because I write about what I’m afraid of. It’s therapy in a sense.

Whatever it means, I’m glad it’s over.

Animal Hoarding Dreams

I love animals, especially rodents. I have had many different pets in my life, but most of them were hamsters, guinea pigs, and rats. I had hamsters from age ten to around age twenty-two, and then I decided to switch to rats because I wanted a little change. I had some rats when I was a young teen, but at that time, we had many other pets, so I did not have time to really bond and learn about them…

You see, Erin, the woman who birthed me, was not just an irresponsible drunken druggie who had to spread her legs for every dick she ever came across, but she was also somewhat of an animal hoarder. We lived in a tiny apartment when I was in middle school, and we had so many animals, I’m surprised we didn’t receive some sort of fine. We had like three hamsters, a tank of fish, two cats, two guinea pigs, a rabbit, a lizard, a snake, and two rats. The rats eventually mated and gave birth to many litters we had to care for. Why? Well, the snake needed food, so we bred our own to save money… Erin’s choice, of course, not mine. Don’t get me wrong, I love reptiles, but I could never be the owner of a snake that ate anything bigger than a cricket just because I love rodents so much. I know it’s just nature, and I accept that, but still, I can’t see animals die, it makes me sick.

Of course, being the hopped up whore she was, Erin didn’t exactly take very good care of these animals. All she did was feed the snake, clean her cage, and buy supplies for the other animals… if we could afford it at the time. So who actually cleaned all of those cages, tanks, and litter boxes? Little ol’ me. The girl who was struggling with a combination of mental illness, severe bullying at school, and physical abuse from her sad excuse for a parent. I tried my best, but I was small, underfed, weak, and emotionally unstable. I loved our pets so much, and I really tried to show it, but how can you give so many different creatures the love they need? How can you focus on one if another needs you? The fish were probably the only ones who could care less if we spoke to them, but everyone else was in danger of being neglected. I also had school, so for eight hours a day, the animals had no one.

Every time Erin came home with a new pet, the part of me that liked animals fell in love, but the responsible part of me said, “how are we supposed to take care of another one if we can’t even care for the ones we have?” Still, I tried. The poor things weren’t as clean as they should’ve been, they were cramped, and sickness was inevitable. I was just glad that our cats didn’t try to attack the rodents, and in fact, they both befriended the rabbit. We opened the rabbit’s cage during the day so that he could run around the apartment, and the cats treated him like another cat, and would even sleep next to him. When they swatted at him, they always kept their claws retracted, and the rabbit was never nervous around his natural predator. I was very proud of our cats for this.

I sort of inherited the habit of owning too many pets from Erin, but I kept it under control. After the court finally took custody of me away from her, I was legally adopted by my grandmother, who had two cats (one would eventually disappear, we think she got eaten by a coyote), and the most I ever had was a hamster and guinea pig. When my guinea pig passed away, I stuck with one hamster at a time, that way I could focus all of my attention on him (I prefer male rodents over females). The hamster was well fed, watered, clean, and got lots of attention, and they always lived their full life span with no problem. Taking care of hamsters became my specialty.

I owned hamsters until a few years ago, and the last one I had was Pip. While he was still alive, I bought two rats on impulse, but my boyfriend and I were able to take care of them no problem. When Pip died, I did not adopt a new hamster, but stayed with rats, and since then, I’ve only owned two rats at a time. In case you didn’t know, you MUST have two rats living in the same cage, they are not like hamsters, who prefer to be alone. Now I am very experienced in rat ownership as well as hamsters. I don’t know what it is about rodents, but I just love them so much.

However, ever since my later teen years, I’ve had dreams where I owned cages upon cages filled with rodents. They usually include hamsters, mice, and rats, but sometimes there will be guinea pigs. In these dreams, the cages were all filthy, having not been cleaned in ages, there was no food or water, and each cage had way too many occupants. I have the feeling of fear that the hamsters will all start fighting because they’re supposed to be kept one per cage. Not only that, but males and females lived together, and I couldn’t keep track of who was dying, who just had babies, and which babies survived the obvious neglect.

Sometimes I have dreams were I find one of my old hamsters sleeping in a cage, and I say, “oh my god! You’re still alive?! I haven’t fed you in years!” Dreams like this have not decreased, and I actually had two in a row recently, one last night, and the one before last. Both involved keeping way too many hamsters and rats. There were no mice in these for some reason, but there have been dreams of mice, even though I’ve never owned a mouse. In these last two, there were so many occupants per cage, it was like a huge mass of fur, and in the case of the rats, tails.

I remember the predicament I had in these dreams about being unable to give each rodent the affection they needed. I guess I had given up on cleaning and feeding them because I couldn’t afford supplies, and the rodents kept running off, I couldn’t keep track of them. On top of that, so many of them had the same markings, so I couldn’t figure out who was who, and I couldn’t keep track of all of their names. I tried taking each hamster out one at a time, and rats out two at a time, but I continuously felt guilt about being unable to love them enough. There would also be times when the doors of the cages were accidentally left open, and the rodents would escape. I’d have trouble tracking them down and stuffing the poor things back into their small cages.

I don’t have trouble feeding, cleaning, or loving my real rats. Their cage is the perfect size for two medium sized adult males, and they’re clean, smell good, have shiny coats, have chubby bellies, and best of all, are happy. Taking care of them is not at all stressful, and since I work from home, there’s rarely a time they don’t have their mama right there if they need me. So why do I have these insane dreams where I’m uncontrollably hoarding rodents?

I think it has something to do with the fact that I was forced to handle so many pets at a young age. I had to deal with the filth, the neglect, and the guilt of not giving enough love all because Erin couldn’t take care of them herself. I felt so sorry for each pet we had, they did not deserve living that way, and I did everything I could to try and keep them healthy. Not many of them died before their time, luckily, but that doesn’t change the fact that their lives were more than just uncomfortable. I think, after more than ten years, I still keep that guilt hidden away in my subconscious, and it haunts me in my dreams.

I often go to the pet store with Michael or Sempai and talk to the rodents through their tanks. I coo at them, tell them how cute they are, and that I’d love to take them home. There was this large male rat I was totally in love with, but he was all alone in his tank. I felt so sorry for him that he didn’t have a buddy, and I wanted to take him home, but I knew it wasn’t the best idea. For one, I didn’t have another cage; I don’t think my medium boys would take too kindly to a new male that’s bigger than they were. In reality, I wouldn’t be able to afford to care for another animal, but I would if I could. As much as I love watching all of the hamsters, mice, and rats at the pet store, and as much as I want to take them home, I am responsible enough to know that I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to them.

I feel like Erin treated our pets like objects. You can’t just collect them like dolls or figurines, you can’t just bring home as many as you like, they’re not toys. Animals have thoughts, feelings, personality, and they will love you unconditionally if you take good care of them. I consider my pets my children, I talk to them like they can understand my words, and I do everything I can to make them safe and happy. These dreams I have are guilty feelings punishing me for not being able to give our old pets the lives they deserved.

Though, one of the guinea pigs we had in that apartment was saved by me. Erin took him with her when she was homeless, so poor Bandit was living in her car with her. I was living with my grandma, and I wanted him back, especially since I knew they were homeless. So I took him back, and he was so filthy, the water turned brown when I gave him a bath. If I hadn’t taken him back, he would’ve lived a much shorter life than he did, but he lived for another two years after that, and we had already had him for about three. He died from some trapped gas in his belly, which according to the vet, is a common problem guinea pigs have.

I wish I didn’t have to deal with these dreams; they’re distressing. It wasn’t my fault that I had to care for so many animals by myself, and yet I feel like it was. Then again, I blame myself for a lot of things that aren’t my fault, but I won’t get into that. It’s unhealthy for me to think this way, but when you’re responsible for another living thing and you can’t take proper care of it, it really affects you. This goes for people, like Erin, who should never have children. If you can’t afford a child, or if you feel you must hit a child, you probably should not have a child.

I guess the only thing I can do is make sure I love my animals to my fullest ability, as well as keep them clean and fed. That should be a no brainer… I guess Erin didn’t have a brain. Then again, people who decide to do drugs don’t have brains to start out with. I wonder how many more years my guilt will plague my dreams.

Animal hoarding is cruel to the poor animals. They are victims of neglect.

The Sleeping Musical Genius

Alright, this has bugged me for years. Have you ever written a song in a dream? Have you ever had a lucid dream? Do you even know what a lucid dream is? Are you even awake right now?

A lucid dream is where you’re aware that you are dreaming. Some people, I think, can control this more than others. Some people can voluntarily fall into lucid dreaming whenever they want. Lucky bastards.

I am not one of those people who can go to sleep at night and go, “okay, this is what I’m gonna do in my dream tonight.” But recently, (by recently, I mean a few years ago,) I’ve been able to tell if I’m dreaming. Not all the time, but often enough.

If I’m having a nightmare, sometimes I’ll stop and go, “wait, that thing can’t hurt me because this is a dream,” or “it’ll be fine once I wake up.”

However, the subject I am addressing today has to do with a dream I had a few nights ago, as well as many others in the past. I’ve had so many dreams where I’ve written a song, a GOOD song, in my dream. I had the melody and lyrics, and they were awesome! And then I’d wake up and not be able to remember a goddamn thing. However, the other night was one of these dreams. My dream self had suddenly started singing a song, and it was awesome! It was upbeat and the lyrics were the type of angry lyrics that gave the impression that you were mad at someone and you sort of just wanted to slap them in the face and storm away. After I finished part of the song, I went, “shit, I KNOW I won’t remember this when I wake up…” It had only been the chorus, but even if I just had that as well as the melody, I’d be able to write the rest easily. So all throuout the dream, even after the environment changed as dreams always do, I sang this chorus over and over, determined to stick it in my mind so I’d remember it when I woke up. However, as soon as I became conscious, the song was lost, and the only thing I managed to retain was the title I had chosen; “Have Another Glass.” I assume I had been singing about stupid people who drink, because those who know me well know that I ABSOLUTELY WITHOUT A DOUBT HATE WITH A BURNING PASSION WITH EVERY FIBER OF MY BEING drinking. It makes sense that I’d write such a song.

A long time ago, I had a dream that was a COMPLETE musical, with verses, choruses, music, characters, etc. Unfourtunately, this was not a lucid dream and had no idea that I wouldn’t be able to record any of this. I hope, though I don’t have faith in the idea, that sometime in my lifetime, they will invent a device that will record the video and audio of one’s dreams. Imagine the movies, musicals, works of literature, art, and anything else you could think of that could be conjured up thanks to this device. However, it’s an unrealistic dream… just as unrealistic as the one I had about the artichoke that sprouted legs and ran off my counter for me to chase.

Anyway, I’ve wasted enough time talking about dreams again, which seems to be a popular subject of mine. I’m just so interested in dreaming. Anhooziwatzit, I’m gonna go illistrate page 20 of chapter 3 of my ZADR comic.

Before I go, ZADR is an acronym that stands for “Zim and Dib romance.” It’s basically Invader Zim Yaoi, and Jhonen Vasquez HATES it. If you hate the idea of ZADR too, move on with your life and don’t read the next sentence. If you DO like ZADR and want to read my surprisingly popular comic, here is the link to page 1 of chapter 1: http://reitanna-seishin.deviantart.com/gallery/36623658?offset=48#/d4x1lvy

It’s so popular, I’ve even had a few Anti-ZADRs tell me they like it. THAT means a lot to me, for them to commit to something they hate. Just like I hate the band The Used, but I like the song “Taste of Ink,” or the fact that I hate Avril Lavine, but I like the song that was used for the ending credits song to Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland titled “Alice.”

Anyway, I’m going back to my world of ZADR comic writing and listening to Lemony Snicket’s Series of Unfortunate Events on audiotape. Bye-bee!