I had a lucid dream last night that I was being killed by Selena Gomez (of Wizards of Waverly Place fame) Naturally, the absurdity of the situation rang a bell in my head and I thought as she stabbed me a few times, “Hey…What is she doing here of all – ” and then I woke up.
So fine, I consulted an online dream dictionary (just for the heck of it) and it told me that my request had no match. Apparently no one ever saw Selena Gomez in their dreams but a lot of the major population glimpsed Madonna (the pop singer) strutting her stuff on the hazy other side even singing ‘Papa don’t preach’. Why don’t I have zany dreams like that? Most of my dreams revolve around me cutting myself, being cut, cutting other people or cutting…trees. Lots of blood, gore, bark and leaf residue. Someone please tell me the significance of leaf residue in a dream? Am I going to own an orchard soon?
Anyway, my little sister made an experimental spaghetti meal while my mother cringed at the thought of her spotless kitchen looking like a toxic dump. It was really experimental since she didn’t knew what it would turn out and well…she didn’t like the result because she poured in a lot of chili sauce in the gravy, and thus it burned my throat when I tried to slurp the spaghetti in haste. Fiyaah in mah mouth, peoplay! Nevertheless, I managed to eat all of it with some boiled rice scattered on top. My sister, Fatty, mournfully sat beside me during the show.
“It sucks. Why are you eating it? ” She inquired.
“No, No! It’s awesome,” I replied thickly. “See I’m eating all of it,” I twisted a few strands of the spaghetti with my fork.
“Yeah, You’re eating the rice,”
I blanched. I couldn’t just say it’s awful and diminish whatever chance my sister-ling has of making gourmet food. NO. NEVER. Cue: Emo-ness.
I swallowed and composed my self. “The first try didn’t work but it was decent enough. It was edible and people in Mexico would probably dig it. Think of what would happen on your 2nd or 3rd try -”
Never had I felt so wise and sage-like in my life, I felt God draining his energy into me, energizing my bones –
“Why are you being nice?” Fatty cried, eyeing me critically and then jumped, “Are you mocking me?”
Wait! What?! I was being nice fo’ real! Fine. STFU.
It didn’t really matter how my sincere words were taken. It did matter that at least she stopped to delve in the spaghetti mess. Dreams are a lot like spaghetti, None of them have a real beginning and ending. You just pick up the parts and go along with it…and also because you don’t really have a choice. Enjoy.
- Chapter 1 – Part 1 (continued) (elizabethhazell.wordpress.com)