Keep Dreaming

Fuck dreams. I don’t believe in them. Specifically, I’m referring to dream interpretations. When people say shit to me like “oh, a dream about your teeth falling out? You know what that means? That means you have anxiety about money” or something like that, my brain automatically translates that to “I’m really into pseudoscience/pop-psychology/nonsense, and I’m probably also into horoscopes and other bullshit like that.” I mean, who doesn’t have dreams about their teeth falling out? Answer: nobody. And who doesn’t have some form of anxiety about money on some level? Again, nobody. You can pick anything that people universally ponder, and any common dream trope and you too can work this fucking quackery and wow the chicks at your next dorm party. It’s easy. Check this out: Oh, you have dreams about falling? That means that you’re apprehensive about what happens when you die. Boom! Dream theory. It’s like being a psychic medium but with even less of a playbook and zero way to quantitatively gauge how obviously full of shit you are.

Now, I am fully willing to admit that if shit’s bothering you, you can have bad dreams as a result. Conversely, if you’re spending a day looking at someone you want to fuck, you may just have dreams about fucking them. I’m not saying that dreams have zero to do with what goes on in your life. They clearly exist in your brain and as such, they’re motivated by your conscious and subconscious thoughts to an extent. What I don’t buy is an overarching interpretation of any particular type of dream that applies to both me and, let’s say, famed pedophile Gary Glitter. There’s just no fucking way. Brains are too different, and as such, dreams are coming out of things that can’t possibly be corralled by some lame book that some dork pulled out of his ass. Lo mein? I’ll expound.

There are humans out there who get sexual pleasure from popping balloons. There are people out there who absolutely live (LIVE!) to punch motherfuckers in the face at bars. Humans exist who enjoy eating feces and other humans are so disgusted by feces that they do everything they can to avoid shitting. Some people fuck dogs. Some people never want to fuck anything at all. Some people will sit down and eat three big macs, a box of mac and cheese and a hostess pie in one sitting and some people are so terrified of food that they starve themselves to death. To briefly return to our earlier example, some people willfully go into situations (playing hockey, doing meth, being British) where the idea of losing one’s teeth is less of a risk and more of a given, and some people would rather get shot in the leg than lose a tooth. Mo’fuckers are snowflakes, bros. Our pleasures are others’ pains and vice versa. Very different things tickle the receptors in our brains that make us happy, sad, scared, angry, etc. There is no way there’s a book that accurately describes what makes parts of our brains light up with glee, and if there is, it should say something to the effect of ‘uh, you name it, some weirdo has beat off to it’ and then end.

SO, you see where I’m coming from? My dream about me fucking a dog is a lot different than a guy in Florida’s dream about fucking a dog. My dream about losing my teeth is different from a toothless guy’s dream about losing his teeth. My dream about falling from a great height is different from Captain Doritos Extreme’s dream about falling from a great height. Though we both have ideas, concerns and apprehensions, my ideas, concerns, and apprehensions about money are different from Donald Trump’s. My notion about the unknown void of death is different from that of a Buddhist monk or my wife’s 92 year-old grandmother. There is just no way that there’s a fucking catch all, decoder ring rosetta stone for dreams that can accurately satisfy why last night I spent the whole time lost in the backstage of a club trying to get to the dressing room only to just walk in circles all night long smelling pizza. I’m sure it has something to do with what I do for a living, but I’ll be damned if I wanna listen to some dork who read some bullshit book written by an even lamer dork analyze my dreams like they’ve spent any time in this nightmare that is my brain.

Pfft. Get outa here with that nonsense. That being said, I’m a virgo, so I’m super skeptical about pseudoscience.

Xoxoxo

Sweet dreams.

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Veteran’s Day Laughs, y’all

Veterans day: a day when lonely men dust off their USMC hats and go get drunk with other lonely men, when daughters and granddaughters post pictures of vets in their families on the Facebook, and when everyone else either just pisses their day off away, or sits in an office stewing because they didn’t get the day off.

It’s something else though, as a nation, we’re creating veterans like it’s crucial to our GDP, and shit, since we also make a lot of the world’s war machines, I guess it is. War is crazy, and people that end up fighting in wars usually, disproportionately even, end up one of three things: dead, blown to bits but alive, or deeply disturbed/haunted. I’m guessing there are plenty of veterans who don’t end up in one of these categories, but it seems to me that being in a situation where your mortality is on the line is always super intense, and knowing that you could, at any given moment, be in a position where you have to decide if someone lives or dies, well, that’s pretty fucking intense too. I don’t know how you could come out of a situation like war unscathed. In fact, now that I ponder it, I don’t think I’d trust someone who came away from a combat experience completely stable. That seems like an inhuman response.

Vets, I’m guessing, don’t always want to end up in combat situations. Some do, sure. But, shit, man, some football players WANT to paralyze the opposition. Some creeps in metal bands want to bone 14 year olds. Some people cut up cheerleaders and make their skin into masks and lampshades. Some people like Chris Brown. Most humans, however, are generally good (yes, this is something I truly believe), and as such, dealing death and pain is generally not something any of us are programmed to want to do.

Right now, I live in a country with a lot of veterans around my age who joined up after 9-11 to defend America, freedom, democracy, get revenge, whatever. I can understand that. Not my bag, but I fully get the sentiment. I also understand that almost none of those people wanted to end up in Iraq, stuck fighting an endless, unwinnable war against a dictator who, while an unquestionably evil guy, was not responsible for 9-11, AND who, in hindsight, seemed to be the last secular, stabilizing strongman in the region. The whole thing was, as we all know, a pigfuck, and once it finally spilled into a second war with Afghanistan (a country that has never been successfully invaded), well, suddenly you’re looking at a lot of bummed out soldiers who want to be at home, and who maybe feel like the part of their life they signed away (a few years of their youth, their mental health, in some instances, their legs, arms, faces, etc) was maybe not worth the paycheck, the prestige of the uniform and the free trip to the desert.

In Viet Nam, motherfuckers HAD to go fight. Those kids, by and large, didn’t want to be in that jungle. Lots of these kids don’t want to have memories of that desert. But whether it’s nationalism, poverty, some kind of court-ordered plea bargain or just good old-fashioned adventure seeking, that’s what we have now. We have a ton of people of all ages, back from foreign wars, many of them broken, and they can’t get jobs. They can’t get the healthcare they need. They’re homeless, or they’re in substandard living conditions, they’re depressed, they’re without an infrastructure, they’re lonely, they’re haunted by what they’ve seen…I could go on and on with this but my point is this: Smartass hyper-liberal dicks are quick to shit on veterans and call ‘em killers or government pawns. Other people are quick to blindly praise veterans while not doing anything practical that could actually help them. I don’t know. I’m not a veteran. I’d shit my pants if you handed me a grenade. I’d cry if someone shot at me. My point is, I fail to see how all these flags and condescending parades and speeches get any of these poor vets any of the help they need. Pretty fucked, America. Even for you.

Okay whatever. Back to dick jokes tomorrow.

 

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