Dreams are complete dickheads. This morning I dreamt I was reunited with my bag, and I was marvelling at how everything was still there untouched. I felt frickin’ amazing, like when you can fly. That’s how much I love stuff.
I had to work at 9 for one hour (‘That’s not a job, that’s a hobby’), and then afterwards, I came home. Esther was still in bed.
“No!” she moaned, as I bounced in the doorway, invigorated by exercise, “I’ve only just got back to sleep. Go away!”
Resigning myself to either being bored or having a cheeky nap, I climbed in next to her.
The next thing I know, I was in Primark and was looking around for a nice cardy, when suddenly I could hear Rihanna singing on the next aisle. I couldn’t see her because the dressing gowns were in the way, but I knew it was her. She sounded amazing.
“WOW!” I though, I always miss these public appearances. She was singing ‘Love the Way You Lie’ but without Eminem. I was getting really into it, it was what people completely unlike me would call “Fierce”
But just as she was getting to the warbly bits that singers always do to ruin the song live, it went all wrong and out of tune, and I woke up and realised it was just a fat chav girl singing along to Primark.fm, and in fact I had fallen asleep standing up. Then I told Esther about it.
Then I woke up and told Esther about the dream and about telling her about it.
So not only was the dream annoying, the dream within the dream was a douchebag too. This wasn’t no 4 level Inception funhouse.
Yeah thanks a lot subconscious, you candy-snatching cretin.