THE DREAM CHRONICLES, Vol. 1--Typical Chase Scenes, and a Relatively Recent Development

I have a long history of dreams. While this in and of itself is nothing unique (I'm sure you have plenty of dreams yourself), I like to think my habit of recording and cataloging said dreams sets me apart--at least a little--from the billions of other dreamers out there. I don't know. Maybe it just makes me weird.

But anyway, ever since I starting keeping track of these things, sometime in middle school I believe, I've noticed several interesting trends. One is that the more I work at it, the more I can control what happens in my dreams. I can't necessarily dictate what I dream about, but I can at least control my own actions. That's pretty cool, but sadly, I haven't been able to do that for a while. My insomnia hasn't been as bad the past few months, so I've been sleeping more deeply and remembering less and less of my dreams.

Last night, however, was a different story. While I wasn't exactly able to enter lucid dreaming and do all the fun things you can do when you know you're asleep, another common trend reared it's ugly head: chase dreams. Particularly, Evil People Like Nazis Out To Get Me and Nobody is Willing To Help.

This time I was living in some kind of apartment complex, and over the course of the dream, I became aware of the fact that my roommate was a psycho. She was cutting up people and storing their body parts in her closet. Sensing that I am her next victim, I quickly try to call the police.

But something stops me: my fingers can't dial the number. Every time they go in to hit those lifesaving buttons, 9-1-1, they miss, or slip off, or the button I thought was a nine was actually a seven. This particular dream element has happened to me so many times lately it's ridiculous. I think this phone actually had two number nines, except only one of them worked. Needless to say, it was quite frustrating.

Especially since my roommate appeared about halfway through with a very large knife and started swinging.

So I run, from apartment to apartment, through the night and in the dark, looking for someone with an operable telephone. Somewhere in there, I find Odd Cake, and together we flee this raging maniac and her minions, who seem to be everywhere.

Case in point, this guy, from Lost. He's teaching some kind of seminar in one of the apartments Odd Cake and I seek refuge in. Yes, he's got a phone, and sure, he'd dial 911 for me (thought I'd play it safe in case this one has wonky buttons too). Trouble is, he's also got a gun, and he wants to make an example of us.

I don't know why he kills us, but in the end I realize what's going on and try to warn Odd Cake. To no avail. He's shot, then me, and suddenly we're lying in a puddle of blood. It was so fast, so painless, but obviously we're dying and there's nothing we can do. So I reach out for Odd Cake's hand, and hold it, hoping that when they find our bodies they will know that, in this world of senseless killings and death, two people cared for each other until the end.