When I first heard about Chantix, the stop-smoking wonder drug, I felt like a long-awaited dream had come true: the dream to finally quit the nasty, antisocial, dangerous habit that had enslaved me for 15 stinky years. Little did I know this dream come true would inspire a series of other dreams, ones laced with talking vegetables, evil siblings, and twisted celebrity sex adventures that I wouldn't be able to purge from my brain with an electrified brillo frontal lobe scrubber.
And so here they are: my top 3 weird-ass dreams while taking Chantix.
"This is my last cigarette ever, I swear."
I started taking Chantix in May to theoretically be quit by June before I started a new job. Nothing breeds respect from your new employees like sneaking out for a butt every hour, so I figured this new job was the perfect opportunity to take Chantix for a spin. I'd also been assured by a pharmacist friend that the side effects were minimal and that I'd quickly get used to the nausea and gas. Around the time I started adjusting my dosage to find the proper level, I ran into a girl outside of a local club that had just quit quitting, in true hardcore smoker style. When I told her I'd just started Chantix, she chortled and proclaimed, "I hope you like nightmares every night!" But I wasn't scared. I love nightmares every night, bitch. Sometimes during naps, too. So there.
"Street-legal in Canada. Thank you Socialism!"
Dream 1: Rainbow Moth Meets the Golden Girls
Once my dose was adjusted, I easily adjusted to the gas and nausea. I'm pretty gassy to begin with, even by farm standards, and I found that as long as I took my dose on top of some food I could control the nausea. The hardest part, I found, was remembering my regular doses. I now have a new respect for my girlfriends that have been on birth control, and the rigorous discipline with which they conduct their dosing. Trust me, if the Chantix I'd been taking had actually been birth control, I'd be like the Octo-Mom right now. I'd be like 1930's Ireland, folks. Nuff said.
"Too few and too white to be Madonna's"
So anyway, on to the dreams. I'll never be able to shake the feeling I had the first time a whole string of them hit me and I was convinced they were real. I woke up in a cold sweat, completely unaware that I'd been dreaming, and convinced that I'd just been eaten by a giant rainbow-colored moth that, minutes before, had been casually conversing with me in my kitchen about whether or not SportsCenter on ESPN had jumped the shark.
This was the finale in a string of alternately exhilarating and terrifying dreams that I'd been experiencing throughout the night. I was a bit too focused on calculating my odds of survival in a rainbow moth stomach to grab a notepad and document the whole night, but I remember that it went something like this: Running, falling, Frosted up Shakespeare, running again, more Frosted up Shakespeare but this time with midgets and werewolves, flying, falling, running, and Estelle Getty. When I was done humping the eldest Golden Girl, I went to the kitchen of my imagination for a sandwich, where I ran into Mr. Moth and well, you know the rest.
"Get out of my dreams, and into my car."
Dream 2: My Sister Rips Out My Hair
The problem with these dreams is that they just seemed so real. If dreams are the mental defragmentation of your brain's library of memories, then Chantix is an evil bitch librarian that loves messing with you by organizing completely insane and unrelated things in a way that makes them petrifying. It's like a 14 year old sadistic middle schooler is laughing his ass off as he arranges your mental books so that the dewey decimal system now puts "yogurt" next to "ass". For him, it's hysterically funny, but translated as a Chantix dream it turns into me launching fruit-on-the-bottom from my rectum while being chased by the cast from the Sgt. Peppers album cover. Freud is rolling in his grave thinking of the money he could make from interpreting this Shakespeare. Fish in a barrel, Sigmund.
"Who's first and what flavor do you want?"
The second dream earns a special place in my heart because it was the first one that made me mad at someone in real life because they'd wronged me in my dreams. I mean, I was definitely mad at the rainbow moth for awhile, but I never actually ran into him again so it's all good.
This dream, on the other hand, involved my younger sister, who is normally a sweet and charming young lady. In this epic battle of good and evil, though, my sister is holding me in a headlock and patiently ripping out fistful after fistful of my already sparse, and therefore valuable, hair. I'm struggling as best as I can to relieve myself from her kung fu grip, but the dreamworld has rendered me malnourished, weak, and unable to escape. I felt like a fish on a hook, or David Spade at the Playboy mansion. Only I was in a headlock getting my hair ripped out by my little sister. Yeah, wicked embarassing.
"Like this, but with more crying."
So the next day, who should call me on the celly but my lovable young sister. It was already evening, and I hadn't thought about the dream all day. One thing that allowed me to suffer through all of these Chantix dreams is my extraordinarily short memory. It's the same thing that allows me to repeat the same relationship mistakes and not advance in my job, but this time it was actually useful. But as I heard my phone ring and saw my sister's name on the caller ID, I immediately had a mini-flashback. It went something like this:
Girls, Girls, Girls!
This Motley Crue ringtone is awesome. Ugh, but what is she doing calling me after...
Girls, Girls, Girls!
...hmmm...after what? I remember she did something awful to me, but not way worse than that time that she kicked me in the junk after I rubbed a booger on her teddybear. And way more recent than that. The teddy bear booger thing was WEEKS ago.
Girls, Girls, Girls!
I really have to change this ringer. "Girls, Girls, Girls" sounds kinda unprofessional, but it's not my fault I can download freakin' Motley Crue songs for these smartphones. How awesome is that, anyway? Maybe I'll get some Kanye next. Wait, what was I thinking about?
Girls, Girls, Girls! Ba buh ba buh
Oh yeah, what the hell is she calling me for after she pulled all my hair out? Better be to apologize for that Shakespearee. Seriously, it's gonna be months before it grows...[feels head]...wait a goshdarn minute here. Was that real? Did she really pull my hair out or was that one of my crazy Chantix dreams? It must have been a dream because I still have all my hair. [feels head a little more thoroughly] Yep, not even a single clump missing. [sticks hands down pants] Yep, pubes intact, too. It would have been extra gross if she'd tried pulling those out because we're related! Anyway, I guess I shouldn't be mad at her since she didn't really do anything. I guess it was a dream!
Girls, Girls, BLEEP!
Crap, it went to voicemail.
"When are you ladies gonna make a dream cameo, eh? Wink wink."
So there you have it. I was pissed at her for ripping my hair out in an alternate dream world where up is down, right is left, and you can passively stand by while people do excruciating things to you. And when I checked the voicemail, she hadn't even apologized. What a bitch!
Dream 3: The Most Realistic Sex Dream of My Life
So it was three months into taking Chantix when I finally decided that I'd spent enough money on prescription hallucinogens and it was time to finally quit smoking for good. They tell you to stay on the Chantix for a few weeks after your last cigarette to ensure that you've truly kicked the nicotine, but I'd been taking the stuff for three months and still smoked a cig or five a day. I figured it was time to kick both habits and use all the money I'd be saving for a stint at Betty Ford.
I had what would be my final cigarette and with a hefty sigh of relief, fear, and anticipation, I went off to shower and hit the sack. As I laid down in bed, I thought that I was in the home stretch and would finally be free of these crazy hallucinations within weeks. Then I heard a knock on my downstairs door. I ran downstairs to answer it and awaiting me on the other side of the door was none other than my high school cruShakespearehe coolest part was that she wasn't a 10+ year aged version of how I remembered her, but the actual hot 17 year-old version that inspired nightly boners for at least a couple years. This girl basically looked like a very young version of Geri Ryan, but without the space tattoo on her face or the fancy jumpsuit.
"Space lesbians are even hotter than terrestrial ones. Wait, is this the lesbian chick?"
So now you've realized that I was in a hot Chantix-induced dream, but I didn't know it. And even cooler, in the dream I became the high school version of myself, which while an arguably less attractive and more fashion-handicapped version of myself, fit the whole nostalgic porno quality that this dream was taking. All we needed was Pearl Jam on the tape player and some OJ Simpson murder trial coverage on TV, and it would have been just like high school again.
Let's just skip to the hot part here. The dream was gratuitously sexual in nature, and there wasn't much dialog. So while the high school version of me is banging the high school version of my high school crush in the kitchen of my current apartment, I started to get this odd, queasy feeling in the dream that something was wrong. Now this is something that I recognized. See, back in the day I used to sleepwalk quite a bit, and usually when I got too far from my bedroom, the dream would take on this anxious quality that indicated I needed to wake up. I think it was some instinctual reaction to keep me from doing something like this in my sleep:
"Arf?"
Once I got "that feeling," I started to get the realization that this must be a dream and that I must be sleepwalking. It was a shame that I'd have to break up the coitus by waking up, but I figured it was in the best interest of safety. So I willed myself awake, wondering where I'd sleepwalked to. Apparently the dream was doing a great job of reflecting reality, because the instant I woke up I wished I hadn't.
You see, in the dream I was banging my crush over the oven, and in reality I'd sleepwalked to the oven.
In the dream, I had an erect penis that I was using for sex. In reality, I also had an erect penis and no pants.
In the dream, I was using my penis to have sex with a vagina belonging to a hot girl. But in reality, a.k.a. my kitchen, I was rubbing my erect penis against a hand towel hanging from the oven door.
Yep, I was having the safest of sex, the kind where you don't have to worry about STD's, but might end up with a little chafing. All I can say is thank goodness I woke up before I "completed" all over the self-cleaning knob.
"She's EZ, alright."
Another thing to be thankful for was that it was still the wee hours and my roommates seemed to sleep through the whole event, but I can never really be sure of that. One of them did seem to give me a suspicious look the next day, but since I do lots of weird stuff, that isn't enough to think they know. But if they ever read this, my comic confession, I might as well come fully clean ... because that towel never will be again. And it's still on the oven door.
Was it worth it? I haven't smoked for seven months, so I'd have to say yes. More importantly, I got to bang both Estelle Getty and my high school fantasy. With side effects like these, who needs recreational drugs?
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