Bad dreams
Two nights ago, I dreamed the Obamas were our neighbors. They had a nice house, and were awfully friendly. The bear and I went to the fair, and while bear was on a ride, I ran into Barack Obama. He was going to give me either a one-arm-around-my-shoulders kind of informal hug, or a friendly little punch on the arm. You could see that as he approached, he wasn’t sure which he should do, and in the end screwed them both up and accidentally punched me in the tits. “Jesus Christ, man, why did you do that?” I laughed, clutching my tits. “Oh my god, I am so so sorry,” he said, horrified. “I did not mean to do that.”
Interpretation 1: a subconscious summary of the health care debate, wherein Obama has symbolically punched all women in the tits, but he really is sorry for it, and really did not want to do that.
Interpretation 2: Going to the fair always sucks. I don’t care how many people tell me this time it’s going to be awesome, or so-and-so will be there. It always sucks exactly as bad as getting punched in the tits sucks, except it lasts ALL FUCKING DAY.
Last night I dreamed that Kate Harding and my most embarrassing ex-boyfriend ever (his nickname was Raven, you guys, and he wore a top hat) teamed up to make a blog about how much I suck. Kate Harding made posts about how much my posts suck, and Raven made posts revealing unflattering details about me and my wardrobe at 14. I expect that of Raven, but Kate Harding, why would you do that? You do not seem like a lover of top hats.
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Umm, this is awesome.
I would care to elaborate, but I don’t think I need to.
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terrorist fist to the tits?!
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I had a dream last night that I was telling Barack Obama about my new tattoo, it was of dragons that flew around. He told me that I shouldn’t tell people that it was my first or last tattoo because they wouldn’t understand.
Then my dog came in with a giant South American guinea pig in his mouth; it was unharmed.
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:-/ *hugs* Sorry your dreams were bad.
At least the first one made some kind of sense! Mine never do. See, even your subconscious is shiny.
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I now have dream envy.
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Keep in mind that although Obama has potentially the makings of the finest president the US has ever seen, he is still male. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he was looking at those knockers and thinking, “Yes, I can.”
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Verily, you are cracking my ass up.
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I had a similar dream last night. I was going to a church with my boyfriend and it turned out to be this weird radfem blogger conference. Any time I tried to say something it would come out wrong and horrible and everyone hated me, but every time my boyfriend would say something they would fawn over him and say, “That’s sooo true!” It was weird, but weirder to see that you have had a dream involving boyfriends teaming up with feminist bloggers as well.
This is an ill omen for sure.
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I once had this awesome dream where I got a super-secret invite to a feminist conference, where Gloria Steinem was plotting to ruin Thanksgiving for everybody. I was put in a group that was tasked with coming up with embarrassing slogans that made everybody feel uncomfortable and vaguely ashamed of themselves for eating mashed potatoes.
In my dream, our objection to Thanksgiving had nothing to do with, you know, colonialism and stealing the land from indigenous people. It was totally just that we were feminists and didn’t want anybody to enjoy anything anymore. After Thanksgiving, we were going to find a way to ruin carnivals and birthday parties. I remember waking up choking because I was laughing into my pillow so hard.
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Finally, someone with dreams as weird as mine.
I once had a dream where I was Barack Obama’s therapist and he came to his therapy sessions in my college dorm room.
Definitely not my weirdest.
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I have never been punched in the tits but I’ve been to the fair. Does being punched in the tits feel like vague energy-sapping disappointment and greasy queasiness and the smell of farm animals, and the thought that in the movies/on tv/in books these things are always bigger or shinier or more interestingly sleazy or creepier or more magical or more satisfyingly agricultural or more fascinatingly tacky or more wildly enjoyable or more SOMETHING and why is this just an experience of vague suck?
Or does it just feel like OW OW MY TITS WHAT THE FUCKING HELL, like I imagine it to?
Also, is it okay to like top hats if you are a crazy little fat nerd woman who likes really bizarre clothes for the sake of them, and not an asshole teenage goth ex boyfriend? XD Or are top hats just an irredeemable sign of douchiness?
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Have you ever heard Lou and Peter Berryman’s song Uncle Dave’s Grace? It’s about a grace that “made everybody feel uncomfortable and vaguely ashamed of themselves for eating mashed potatoes.”
Oh, look! they are running a special on that album (House Concert) for only $5. http://www.louandpeter.com/index.html
Or you can wander around their website and find links to the lyrics or a small snippet on CD baby.
They are some of my favorite songwriters in the funny vein.
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