As a child, I became disillusioned with public schooling fairly early. That may sound like a brag, but it’s not meant to be. I just got very emo, very quickly. Sometime around 3rd grade I can remember marching down the halls with the rest of my class, going off to art, music, or some other delightful, well-taught class that I, through an angsty preteen worldview, assumed I was too good for. That ugly-red digital clock would taunt me by just ticking over to 8:46 as I walked under it. Eight forty-six!?! Wasn’t it 7:15, like, ten hours ago?
My hatred for the monotony of grade school was misplaced a bit, I think. From K to 5th I didn’t have to deal with grades at all. Our school didn’t touch ’em. We had a teacher-parent conference every four weeks, where they talked about, I’m sure, how much I loved drawing mazes and writing picture books, but was ass-bad at math. What did I really have to complain about then? In truth, nothing. Even our playground was just too good. It was all splintery wood and old, dented metal. We had a tire wall, several tipped over monster truck tires, and a shiny green speedboat, sans motor and whatnot. Plus, a butt-load of shaky old bridges.
I digress, I think. The point is, I was just being a whiny little bitch. The only think my tiny, elementary brain could focus on was getting home, going to bed, and having some really awesome dreams. I even had a dream journal for a while. It was epic. Upon waking, before taking my pre-breakfast piss, I would quickly jot down everything I could remember from my dream. I swear to god though, an hour later on the drive to school, or whatever, I wouldn’t be able to remember anything. I remember being so surprised reading those journal entries, though. It was a shock how weird/sexual/generally entertaining my dreams would read.
I guess this is all just a lead-up to a description of a dream I had a couple of nights ago that I wanted to post, uh, a couple of nights ago. Whatever, I’ve written this much, I’m going to post something. I’m going to give you the dream in list form, or something. I don’t know. It seems more accessible this way. Dreams generally don’t have a linear narrative anyway.
The list was a failure. I forgot that my dreams are extraordinarily boring for everyone that isn’t me; and I took it as a bad sign when I started to get bored telling my own fucking dream.