So last night I took a dose of Melatonin before going to bed. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But of course, my fucked up brain chemistry won't allow me to react to drugs the same way everyone else on the planet reacts to drugs, so I end up freaking out on NyQuil, chattering like a squirrel when I drink red Gatorade, and getting up every hour or so when I take Melatonin. On top of everything else, my Paxil is wearing off, so I'm dreaming as hard and fast as I used to. The combination of constant interruptions to my REM and lack of soothing medication led to some very weird dreams last night. I recount to you the most strange.

Hippies and the Mafia

I was a guest at a mafioso's manor, dressed to the nines in swank designer things. A hippie boy came over to have sex with the boss under a mechanic's car lift. Afterwards the hippie and I talked for a bit. He reminded me of Alex from A Clockwork Orange. Later on in a different room of the house, I was hanging out with those two again, and a mafia soldier comes over and starts lording it over me. The other two thinks it's hilarious. Eventually he demands I call him some derisive honorary. It wasn't 'daddy'. Something else.

Back to reality for a minute. I've been reading a lot of feminist essays for a "Women in ____________" class that I'm taking. So my response to this situation, dreaming or not, may have been different given a different bedtime reading material.

So essentially I tell this asshole to go fuck himself. In response, the hippie is ordered to teach me a lesson. He does. I'm beaten black and blue. They all love it. Next scene.

A party at the mansion. I'm tied up, lashed to the wall as a decoration. I felt my face swollen, my lips stiff and bulbous with bruises. I could barely see through the black eyes. The party guests were worth looking at, however. The wives of the mafiosos were dressed insanely, in these designer suits that showed, to the best effect, their multiple sets of breasts. I ascertained that this was the style of the clique. There were women who looked like the fat dancer at Jabba's palace, with rows of boobs jiggling in multiple bras. They fluffed each other;s breasts and gossiped over them.

I drew a crowd. The trophy wives jabbed me and humiliated me. What could I do? I was tied, unable to speak through a bruised mouth.

Why do I dream like this?

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