The thought is simple, really. Why do certain people in one’s life have to be such major pains in my ass? This turns into the second part of a long equation. Part 2: Why can’t anyone accept the blame that is their own? Why must we pass it on to others, and all the while, make them feel awful and terrible 5x more than they already need to?
An impressive question to ask this bright and beautiful first day of December, but something that kept me awake a portion of the night. I don’t remember the last night I actually slept like a little itty-bitty baby. There are too many thoughts swirling around this skull of mine! Real-world problems, personal issues, creative road bumps, family concerns, all of that and more. There is never a moment of silence with this brain of mine.
Sounds so easy, right? “Quiet your mind and listen.” Except its much harder than that. Meditation, zoning out, letting a higher spirit talk to you. It all sounds so simple…but have you actually tried it?
This might explain why I’ve been having such wacky dreams as of late. I’m serious! Just last night? Let me tell you all about it:
“Once again, I find myself in the White House (Am I on a powerful struggle as of late? Why else would I keep placing myself in such a significant place of residence?) except this time, my hair is slicked back in a sleek ponytail, carrying a briefcase, and holding a pack of Bubble-Yum Gum in my hand. The floors are made of hardwood and went I’m sliding around on them with bare feet, and I don’t think my toenails are painted any particular color. Nude, maybe. (Who walks around the White House in bare feet and no nail polish? Yikes.)
Next thing you know, a child or two bursts through the door behind me, and I’m telling at them to slow down or no dessert for dinner (Yet, I don’t believe I am their mother…Glorified babysitter? I really don’t know.) My cell phone rings, and I’m being alerted my presence is needed in the conference room. Immediately. With the gum still clutched in my hand, I turn around and sprint down the hallway (I’m not talking a fast-paced walk…I’m full-out sprinting, yelling at people to get the f*ck out of my way or I’ll personally have them killed.)
I get to the conference room and a large group has gathered. No one has a pleasant look on their face. Very stern, very strict. (Whatever the heck is going on, it’s not good.) Next thing, someone has brought up a PowerPoint (does the White House actually use PowerPoint in their highly top-secret meetings?) and there’s a giant picture of a meteor on it. A larger than the state of Texas meteor is headed towards the United States, and supposedly I’m the one holding the solution to this giant crisis. (Sounds a lot like Armageddon, I know, but I have not watched that movie in months…so where this is coming from is beyond me!)
Someone from the front of the room near the projector screen calls out my name, and asks me to present. I push my way through the crowd, land my briefcase on the table, open and pull out three different Barbie Dolls. No one acts like this is strange, or widely inappropriate given the graveness of the situation.(They are Nurse Barbie, Holiday Barbie, and Rock Star Barbie, in case you were wondering.) I set them on the table, and proceed to reenact my solution using the Barbie dolls. What I said or what my plan was, I couldn’t tell you. (I think I was distracted by the fact I was demonstrating a solution to this world ending problem using Barbie dolls. Wouldn’t you be?!)
I finish my presentation, and my phone rings. I answer it, throwing up a ‘Hold On a Minute’ finger to the speaker who called on me in the first place, and I’m off sprinting again. My mission this time? To pick up four different kinds of pizzas for a birthday party happening on the other side of the White House. I packed up my Barbie’s, and ran out the door. I’m still barefoot, by the way.”
Pretty strange, right? I’m going to have fun deciphering this one later. I wonder what Holiday Barbie means to Freud.
“I have terrible short-term memory loss, which I like to think of as presidential eligibility.”
Paula Poundstone, the comedy circuit staple, has a point here. If I keep having dreams located in the White House, I’ll be just as qualified to run this country as George W. Bush. (Come on, think about it…Was he really qualified to be Commander-in-Chief? I think not.)
It’s the start to the weekend. Be safe out there!