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The problem with the Chantix dreams is that they just seemed so real. If dreams are the mental defragmentation of your brain's library of memories, then Chantix is a 14 year old sadistic middle schooler who's 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 stuff. 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! Girls, Girls, Girls! Girls, Girls, Girls! Girls, Girls, Girls! Ba buh ba buh 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! | ||||||||||||
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