I’ve been having a hard time writing. Partly because I keep finding distractions for myself and partly because I keep thinking what I write isn’t good enough to post on the internet. That little perfectionist inside my brain keeps stopping me from letting the words flow. BACKSPACE. BACKSPACE. BACKSPACE. That’s my mantra these days. I mean, if you really think about it, it’s ridiculous. If I can post “Hey assbutt, where are you?” (#WhereMySPNFansAt?) on my friend’s Facebook timeline, surely a rant about a beautiful Turkish man can’t be that bad. So I have decided to tell my brain to shut up and let me do the talking. Or writing or whatever. I’m just gonna let the words flow. There’s a lot of things that have happened in the last month or so that I haven’t written about but we’re not talking about that right now. Today, I’d like to discuss a topic that has been debated by humankind for, I don’t know, probably a long time.
So there’s this recurring dream that I have, right? And I’ve told a bunch of different people that I know about it but they don’t seem to have experienced anything similar. Or at least, none that they’d like to admit to me. So this dream comes to me about once every year on the average and it never fails to scare the living shit out of me, until I wake up realizing I shouldn’t have fallen for it for the twentieth time. Anyway, in the mythology of this dream world, every year, on the same day at midnight, dinosaurs come back to life. They just come back for that one day and then they disappear until I have the dream again a year later. Of course, these dinosaurs run amok in the world, destroying and killing until, you know, *poof* – they’re gone. Strangely enough, my brain keeps a running count of who has died during these dino attacks and when I have the dream the next time, those dead people won’t be present. I remember, about five years ago, a dinosaur tried to bite my uncle’s head off but he narrowly escaped. The dinosaur grazed the top of his head, pulling his hair out and leaving him shiny headed. Now, my uncle is bald in real life. He has been since before I was born so I guess my subconscious really wanted to give him a backstory cooler than ‘he turned forty’.
I was really curious about what all that meant so I asked a psychologist friend of my aunt’s who gave me an answer I really didn’t expect. She thought (due to the disturbing reverence she had for Freud) that being chased by dinosaurs implied a fear of intimacy. I mean, I’m not a hugger or a cuddler but this still felt like a weird answer. It turns out that she based her answer on the fact that dinosaurs were reptiles and Freud said reptiles/snakes = sex. To which I promptly replied, “Umm, no, lady, have you even seen Jurassic Park? Dinosaurs evolved into birds. Duh.” I guess her answer kind of fit in with that one dream I had where this dumb komodo dragon wouldn’t leave me alone. But I ended up googling it anyway and all I got was thirty different websites telling me I was either:
A. Running from my past
B. Afraid that I am useless
C. Nervous about changes and/or
D. Stuck with an outdated attitude
I would believe them but I can never trust websites with too many hyphens in their domain. I decided to stick with the bird theme, which led me to a website claiming I was being pulled in too many directions. Geez, guys. How hard is it to tell me what I am thinking? I didn’t even bother checking what it means when a guy with an ax bursts through your bedroom window. Okay, I did. It means one of my friendships is toxic. But it could also mean I watched Hoodwinked too many times. And the dinosaur thing? Maybe I’ve just been predicting the Jurassic Park sequels.