My dreams are the worst dreams

My dreams are conspiring against me.

The last two nights I’ve suffered through longwinded, unending, agonisingly boring dreams. Dreams of road-trips through infinite savannahs, and dreams of standing in line at banks, and dreams of being stuck on train loops through dark tunnels with nothing to read. Waiting and watching and listening to the glacial grind of watch hands. It’s like dealing with a Telstra technician every night.

I wake every half hour and check the clock and wish that morning would come sooner, because I’d rather be awake and exhausted than deal with this crap. And because it’s not even restful – by the time the alarm goes off I feel like I’ve been running in circles for thirty hours instead of sleeping for eight.

I don’t know what I did to deserve this. I probably gut-punched a nun in a previous life.

The centrepiece in the eight-course-shit-banquet last night wasn’t the dream of filling my digital camera with photos of geese (and then deleting them manually, one by one). It wasn’t the dream of having to watch an old school-friend discuss foreign policy with Dubya Jr (although that was just as interminable). It was the dream about standardised testing.

I was living on a large tropical island, complete with waterfall and beautiful wind-swept beach and motorboats. The problem was, in order to stay on the island, I needed to complete a multiple-choice citizenship test. The test was always held on the far side of the island, only accessible by waterplane.

I went to the little local airport, waited in line, caught the plane, flew over, sat down for the test. It turned out the test was about philosophy in modern religion. I filled out the circles, left, waited for the plane, got on, flew home, sat down.

I got a call. Someone from the police was on the other end, saying I’d never done the test.

Fuck that, I thought. I left the house, flew back, did the SAME TEST AGAIN, filling out every little circle very carefully, writing my name, initialling it, and handing it in to the guy at the door. Then I flew home.

I was sitting in my living room eating a burger when the door suddenly imploded and police stormed in. One charged up to me and shoved an assault rifle in my face. “Why haven’t you done the test?”

“I did the test! Twice!”

“Fuck no, you haven’t!” The officer slapped the burger out of my hands. It ruptured all over my jeans. “Get back there and do it properly!”

“But… I need to change!”

“NO TIME!”

So I’m dragged out the door and thrown onto a plane and flown back to do the test for the third time. I walk into the exam room. Someone there informs me that I can’t do the test in dirty pants. So I have to do the dang citizenship test in my underpants with police staring at me from the doorway with guns drawn.

For the third time, I fill in all the little circles, sign my name, hand it over. Then I go to leave.

“Uh-oh, boy.” One of the policemen taps his watch. “Looks like the examination period is strictly between two and four PM. It’s only one thirty. Looks like this test is invalid.” And he tears my paper in half.

I scream so hard I wake myself up.

These boring dreams are killing me. I’d prefer straight-up nightmares. At least you can do something interesting with nightmares after you wake. All I can do with these dreams is post bitchy blog entries.

Dear subconscious,

Die.

Sincerely, Ruz.