Dream Weaver

I have been having some bizarre dreams of late. Heart wrenching, wake up sweaty, dazed and confused dreams. I think I need to lay off the Crime TV genre. And maybe the time management games.

I recently downloaded a new app that I am really really enjoying. It involves serving customers in restaurants. I know, sounds great right? But I find it obnoxiously fun to bake cakes with the right flavored icing, serve tea and biscuits while simultaneously brewing more tea and baking more biscuits. I feel a sense of joy when I remember to start the milkshake maker at just the right time so that I can deliver my last milkshake just before the new ones are ready. I don’t think I’m really selling this well as a game, but whatevs, it’s making me happy.

I also have been watching the following on Netflix: Sons of Anarchy (cute bad boys on motorcycles, yes please), Peaky Blinders (cute bad boys with accents, yes please), and Broadchurch (David Tennant, yes please). While each of these has its particular strengths and weakness regarding scintillating television, I am still enjoying them and still sneak an episode in whenever I can.

Cue nightmare:

Last night was a weird mixture of, like, everything. I settled into a nice sleep after playing Cooking Fever in front of the TV (God Bless America!). The dream started with me working as a bartender in some land with awesome accents. I was more of the owner of the bar type, had a handle on everything and had regulars who asked for me. Not just a college dropout working in a line of other college dropouts. It was a quaint pub, mostly beer and whiskey. The occasional cute bad boy would come in, order a drink, and sit at a table, the same table. Like a cute bad boy conference was underway.

And it was precisely that moment when I realized that a cute bad boy conference was underway. As it is with alcoholic fueled conversation and reactionary sentimental thugs (in dream time), things deteriorated quickly. I had been all laughs; serving a tray of beers to the table, getting a hip squeeze and a bum slap from a goateed leatherhead when I suddenly found myself dodging pint glasses and fists.

Cooking Fever training kicked in and I was able to visualize every throw and blow and dodge/duck accordingly. When the big guns came out, I grabbed hold of the goateed man and ran out of the back of the club. We hopped on his motorcycle and took off. And then it got weird.

I had to “beat” certain “levels” to fill the meter that would make the lights turn green so we could drive. It was a test to see if I could complete the tasks without having to slow down. STRESS! This mostly involved throwing coffee mugs into hoops or shooting targets on the sides of buildings, but having to find where the hoops and targets were moving to and from. If I missed, a piece of the bike would fall off and we’d be caught by the raging throngs of bitter bikers lead by David Tennant in a persistent Doctor Who kind of way.

We drove up the steps of a (gorgeous) cathedral and crashed in through the doors. Much flopping and flailing and literally rolling down the aisles later, we miraculously stood, covered our tracks completely (bike and everything), and proceeded to hide. Not well. This is where even my kindergarten hide and seek training failed me miserably. I distinctly remember trying to hide in the organ. Like in the pipes. Then, everything was eerily quiet. For decades. The benefit of dream view showed me that the actual bad guys were advancing on the choir loft with military precision. I held my breath and closed my eyes and hoped they were further away than they felt. I could feel their hot breath in my ear. I was shaking uncontrollably wondering why they couldn’t see me, smell me.

Which is when the cat sneezed in my ear and I woke up terrified.

I couldn’t blink. I didn’t want to shift in case “they” heard my covers rustle. I was face down so my view of the room was pitiful, made even more non-existent by the fact that the cat realized her trick had worked and my eyes were open and began pawing at my face because clearly if my eyes were open then it must be time to eat!

I think my heart rate has finally slowed to a normal level. I feel less like I could be murdered at any moment, and more like I would like to murder an overweight feline who has developed a new set of tactics to be fed earlier and earlier. *Shaky Fist* I will kill my in-laws for feeding her before 6.


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