When Dreams Become Nightmares

Well, I never wanted this blog to become a diary, but my sleepdriven experiences last night made me instantly go to this page; I wanted to spread the word, lose the boyish charm that many give me, and instead become the Bad Boy of Ze Internet.

just like that Prince from Bel Air

This is the story about How I Sat In The Cockpit While The Pilot Filled Her Nose With Coke, Thus Crashing The Goddamn Plane, Making Me Wanted In The Entire World Because Drugs And Planecrashing Are BAD. (Details may suddenly be blurred out, since I can feel the dream slipping away like sand through my fingers.)

It all seemed like a normal dream; I'm sitting in the cockpit with a girl from school, whose job has suddenly become steering a big fucking plane. This doesn't make me worried yet though, because boobs.

As we're approaching the landing site, she decides it's now COKETIME

DELICIOUS!

Sniffin' and flyin' doesn't really match, and there's a reason it isn't considered doping; it most certainly makes you less capable of landing an airplane, and more capable of, you know, DYING. This girl manages to hit the control tower, cutting through it like Obi Wan Kenobi's lightsaber cuts through Darth Maul. It was a magnificent, yet terrifying sight, and as the ground rapidly approached, our dear pilot decided to ground it somewhat gracefully ("gracefully" here means smashing it to the ground, but my survival proves a valid point: in dreams, not even a cokeinfluenced High School girl fails to land an airplane without casualties = everything's possible while sleeping).

So, we're on the ground, and we're not thinking about the craziness of the situation, instead we start having an intelligent discussion concerning THE POLICE IS COMING WE BETTER RUN I'M SO FUCKING PUMPED THIS COKE IS CRAZY WHERE'D YOU GET IT OUR PLANE HAS CRASHED RUN RUN RUUUUUUUUUN!

And then we were 3. Yet another guy from school joins in, and we're in quite a rush now, heading for some trees surrounding the airfield. This group of trees apparently contains some sort of school, and thinking "hey, schools! We're in a school ourselves! PERFECT CAMOUFLAGE!"

Oh yes. PERFECT camouflage

Our somewhat flawed logic doesn't restrain us from entering said school, whose inhabitants are clearly all retarded. "This most certainly must serve some point later in your dream, Mim B!", you'd might think, but no. They're just retarded. As we're walking from class to class, the retardedness factor (soon to be a nationwide TV show, where contestants compete in being the most retarded; Simon Cowell, Dustin Hoffman and Jack Osbourne are to be judges) of this school seems higher and higher - and in a sudden twist of events, free violins are given to whomever migh accept. Ok, no sudden twist of events, just a random gimmick in an already incoherent dream. My fellowship now decides we're sitting ducks, and we're much better off as driving ducks, and when seeing a car, we decide it's time to hit the road.

This is, of course, a GREAT idea, since crashing a plane and then moving on to another limbcrushing mean of transportation contains no risks at all - we've already spent our crashquota for this dream! So we're off, and in the biggest anticlimax since I lost my virginity, we crash head on into the side of the school, killing us all (thus waking me up).

The morale? Don't let boobs misguide you. Srsly.