I dream of telling everyone about your kooky dreams
Could this be the year we finally get a dream-recording device?
There are many inventions I’m hanging out for this year – from automatic cheese graters, to a device that allows Kyle Sandilands to break free from his rage-limiting mortal form and roam the skies as a scowling dragon, hurling damsels with ‘90s haircuts into volcanoes.
But a gizmo that could record and playback dreams would be at the top of my list.
Is this the year we get to do that Inception thing and wear flashy suits inside Japanese businessmen’s heads and hang out with Ellen Page?
A device that allows us to see one another’s dreams would be awesome… because hearing about them is brain-punchingly boring.
Dreams never make for interesting office banter. To the dreamer, they are quirky, terrifying and exhilarating. But to the person pretending to listen while staring intently at the container of left-over pasta revolving in the microwave, they are the purest form of torture.
Take, for instance, the dream I once had where I was locked in gladiatorial combat with a grinning, stick-armed snowman. Every time I landed a decent punch, he would cackle wickedly as the falling snow filled his wound. At this point, there are only two opinions you could possibly form.
One: I am a serial killer. Or two: I am a serial killer. In both cases, the only appropriate response would be: “Whatever. This is coming from the guy who moisturises his soft, supple skin with various lotions every morning before setting his home security code to 7753-8219.”
Every time you tell someone about a dream, you are effectively vomiting an ink blot onto a piece of paper so others can project things onto it and say: “It looks like a wolf chasing a boy. Also, I think you’re really insecure about your tiny forearms.”
And don’t ever, under any circumstances, tell me about your sex dream. I don’t care if it involves Charlie Chaplin, Dame Judi Dench or that creepy CGI Benjamin Button - I’m going to have to assume it’s really about me.
Adam Sandler? Me. Your husband? Me. Helen Mirren? Me. That old guy at the train station who throws pencils at people? Me.
Being a male between the ages of 15 and 95, I am required by law to inform you that this is merely your subconscious’ way of telling you that you are hopelessly attracted to me.
Then we’ll both be at the bus stop or kitchenette and you’ll be telling me about how your grandma had a big fight with your mum and I’ll have to cut you off and tell you we can’t hang out anymore because you had a sex dream about me and it’s weird.
Then you’ll do that puzzled face people do when they have a sex dream about someone, but replace their face with George Clooney’s.
Also, if you do decide tell me about your dream, just assume that I’m going to tell people about it. I’ll probably embellish certain details and add weird, disturbing scenes to make it more interesting. At the very least, I’ll use it to save a particularly awkward conversation.
“So, Sarah dumped me last night.”
“Oh yeah? Man. Hey, Terry told me he had a dream about murdering a forklift driver. What a sicko, right?”
Please also note that I will be obliged to interpret your dream at the completion of each retelling.
“Then Jennifer said she ran past the robot and out of the cave, so I’m pretty sure she’s secretly planning on taking that other job offer after her four weeks annual leave are over.”
But if there was a way to record our dreams, I wouldn’t have to go around telling everyone in the office about what a crazy person you are. I could just show them.
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