Once upon a time I had a dream. I’m not talking about a metaphorical dream, a la Martin Luther King’s speech. I mean an actual dream where I was asleep and dreaming of things that weirdos like myself dream of.
And in this dream, a bunch of friends and I were wandering around a ginormous museum. There were dinosaurs, castles, knights, swords, cannons — all the awesome stuff that makes museums awesome in ways that only awesome geeks can appreciate because historical geekiness is awesome. And I don’t think I fit the word “awesome” enough into this paragraph, so: awesome awesome awesome awesome.
And then, as sometimes happens, it turned into an “I have to pee” dreams.
A number of you know what I’m talking about. The dream where you have to pee and therefore have to find a toilet. Which turns into an epic quest that a therapist would have a field day with analyzing.
Because first of all, there’s the issue of even finding one. Every where you look, there’s no toilet. Even when you think you’ve found one, you’ll open the door and it’s a tiny pit where a toilet used to be.
If you’re lucky, you finally find a toilet.
Except, well … it’s out in the middle of a huge room populated by numerous people. So you’d have to pull down your pants and do your business in front of everyone. Or you find a stall, and as soon as you sit down, boom! Walls gone. People there. Your ass hanging out for all to see.
Fun fact: I have gotten over this version of the dream because at some point in time I was just all “OH TO HELL WITH IT, PEOPLE! THIS IS MY ASS! THIS IS MY ASS ON THE CAN!”
Or you do find a washroom, but the toilets are about as clean as a post-last call washroom at a cheap dance club.
But, great luck! In this particular dream I did find a washroom in the museum. The stalls were even clean! I may have frolicked and skipped between the stalls I was so happy I found them.
Then I saw her. A girl from my past who is/was an absolutely awful person. To encapsulate the extent of awful would take far too long, but to summarize: she was one of those “popular” people who thrived on drama. Often drama she created, all while proclaiming victimhood to her followers.
Even when she wasn’t instigating drama, she thrived on it, playing friend, listening to everyone’s ills, gobbling it up like it was her fuel. And while she portrayed this as being full of compassion for fellow people of the world, it just … wasn’t. There was just something rotten under the surface.
And this girl was totally hanging in my washroom dream. The moment she saw me, she ran over oh so excited, and greeted me with joy, as if I were her newest bestest best friend in the world. She invited me back to her place to hang out and talk and catch up on the good old days.
Her place was a small cottage, complete with greenery. Situated within the washroom. In the middle of her “yard” was a cauldron, bubbling away, providing power and fuel for her house.
And then I noticed the washroom’s plumbing.All the lines were hooked up and led to this cauldron.
She was — as my dream brain dubbed — a shit witch. A person who takes your shit and then brews it for their own energy and uses.
I’m actually quite impressed with my dream brain for coming up with such a term.
My dream-self left and found my friends and ran away from the shit witch, all while laughing and having fun. She wasn’t impressed, and followed me outside trying to be friendly and talk.
So I turned to her, and at the top of my lungs bellowed “LEAVE. ME. ALONE!” She was left whimpering in the background of my dream, all sad and angry that she could not get my shit.
And when you think about it, it’s a good moral for either dreams or reality: Stay away from shit witches. Do not engage with shit witches. Tell shit witches to leave you alone. And then walk away and get the hell along with living your life.