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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 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.  "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." I was also thankful 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. So was all that Chantix 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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