i don’t know.

I was just sitting here typing when I heard Eric’s voice. It’s on the television. He’s doing these cable commercials now for their cable modem service. It’s a bit jolting. It sounds like he’s in the other room asking me to buy something. The commercial makes me giggle, because he’s so damn happy about Road Runner.

I try not to read into my dreams too much. It tends to make me nervous. But since last night was a bit of a repeat dream, I can’t help but wonder what it means.

Okay, it wasn’t technically a sex dream, since there was no sex involved. There was the hint of sex. The expectation of sex. The possibility. But no actual booty-shaking.

And the concept of a sex dream isn’t what’s bothering me. It’s the person that was in the dream. This isn’t a person that I’d normally dream about, or even fantasize about. But twice now, over two years, he has ended up in a dream of mine, discussing something like mayonnaise or whatever, while quietly nibbling my ear.

What’s up with that? This is not a person I even want to fantasize about. There is no real reason.

And I guess, whatever, that’s no big deal. I’m cool with that. Freaky people show up in your sex dreams. That happens to everyone. The thing that’s bothering me is that both times the two of us never actually had sex because at one point I completely grossed him out.

The first time I think I said something that he thought was really stupid, and he said that he lost all respect for me as a smart girl, and really just couldn’t go through with sleeping with someone as dumb as I was.

But last night, it was just silly. He leaned over me to kiss me, and then he started sniffing. And he was sniffing all over my arms and chest, and I realized that he could smell my feet.

My feet were stinky. Bad. Bad stinky.

I tried pushing them away. My feet. I was elongating my legs and trying to make them stretch out and fall off the bed. Like I could just kick off my feet and it wasn’t a problem. But the more I did that, the more my feet just got closer and closer to my head, until my leg was bent under my shoulder, and my left swamp-foot was resting on my pillow.

I tried stammering an explanation, but he was too offended, and walked out of the room.

I am now dreaming about my paranoia about my black clogs. This is perhaps the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. I have actual real drama and stress and crises going on in my life, and my subconscious decides to dwell on the fact that I own a pair of shoes that I love that make my feet stink.

No, y’all, they really make my feet stink. Like, bad. Like, I’ve taken them off before in mixed company and people shout, “Good Lord, what is that smell?” I have to put them on in the morning and never take them off until I’m home and I run into the bathroom and wash my feet because even I can’t stand it. My feet usually don’t smell. I’ve never had this problem before. And two days ago the shoes added another strike against them: the right one makes a small squeak with every step. Some sort of air seems to be escaping from the sole when I step down. I sound like the little house cleaner from Poltergeist.

So, I walk down the hallway at work, realizing that I’m just a musical stink-fest, and I won’t get rid of these shoes. It’s hot out. It’s really hot out, and I just want a pair of clogs that keep me cool, look good, and have a three inch heel.

And I guess I’ve been dwelling over my stink-paranoia for so long that now I can’t sleep without thinking that these shoes are ruining my sex appeal with people I’m not sexually attracted to.

I could analyze the hell out of it, but I just find it rather depressing.

No, it really is a new low. I’ve never been one to have wonderful, refreshing dreams where I wake up feeling completely rested and happy and just overjoyed about the world.

On the contrary, my dreams are usually scary. Usually people are chasing me, wanting to kill me, wanting to hunt me down and punish me for something I didn’t know that I do. Quite often I’ve accidentally killed someone, and I don’t know how to get rid of the body. People get sick in my dreams, or shot, and I can always feel their pain. I never get to see old friends. Animals seem to have lost their skin. Just blood and muscle rubbing against my leg. When I fly, I do it by jumping in the air, over and over, until I reach a spot in the atmosphere where I float for a while, and then I slowly come back down to the ground, where I jump and float again. To go higher, I have to swim. I have to swim hard like the air is thick, and I have to push myself up so that I can get just a big higher than the last jump. But there’s always a place where I’ve jumped too high, swum too far, and I reach a place in the sky that I can’t come down again, and I begin to float away, like when a kid lets go of the helium balloon and starts flailing to try and grab it. I have to hold onto the sides of buildings, or electrical wires to keep from floating into space.

My mother told me a month ago that she has the best dreams when she flies. She just opens her arms and soars. It’s always peaceful and she wakes up with a smile. I told her how I fly, how it starts out powerful and exciting, but always ends up with me struggling to keep control, to keep from dying.

She told me that my father has the exact same dreams about flying. He jumps and jumps and jumps and has to swim in the air, and eventually loses the ability to come back down.

How strange is that? My father and I have never discussed flying in dreams. I don’t think we’ve ever even discussed dreams at all. And yet, we have the same kind of flying dream, with the same fear and result.

Can your dreams be genetic?

The other day Taylor was asleep and started sucking the air and moving his paws in that “making biscuits” fashion. I like to think he was having a kitten dream where he was back with his mommy and felt really safe.

I’d like one of those dreams. Not the sucking thing, but just feeling safe. Young. Warm. I’d like to sleep with some peace.

Did you go see the Young Americans recap?

New webhead. I’m bitching about cell phones.

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