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Opinion

Weird dreams, creepy late-night texters lead to less sleep

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November 29, 2012

Typically, my dreams are filled with action, suspense, drama and all sorts of sexiness. But on occasion, a clown comes running at me, wielding a giant butcher knife.

Sometimes, I find myself at the bottom of a deep pit and a gruff looking person is yelling at me from above, “Put the lotion in the basket.”

In response to this particular dream, I can only laugh because I know eventually that the stupid little shih tzu will jump down into the pit with me, muah hahaha.
Regardless, these are nightmares.

The dreams I prefer are the ones where I find myself flirting with one of the 10-foot-tall, blue-bodied creatures from “Avatar.” I prefer these dreams because I imagine that I am Captain James T. Kirk, the ladies man of intergalactic space travel, but without the fatally-contagious venereal diseases.

My continuing mission: to boldly go where no man has gone before.
In real life, as in my dreams, I am rejected by all women. Even the girl in the corner resembling Chewbacca from “Star Wars.”

However, as I sank into my pointy-tipped spring mattress this past Sunday, I was not afforded the opportunity to woo beautiful space women and order them a tall glass of “I swear if you drink this, I’ll look better” flavored liquor.

Instead, I spent the wee hours of the morning tossing and turning like some beached-whale, trying to dodge text messages from some strange, possibly intoxicated man who had managed to acquire my number from Facebook.

He asked for my address. I responded with 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Good job,” I said to myself. “He’ll never find me now.”

He then asked if I was alone. Oh boy.

After promptly checking that my doors were locked and my windows shut, I took my Swiss Army knife out of its box and went to bed. If any deranged killer was coming after me, you can bet I’d have my corkscrew ready and waiting for him.

Becoming frustrated by the number of texts from this maniacal man, I called him. He didn’t answer. Texting me, he sent a message, “Why?”

“Because,” I wrote back, “I wanted to personally tell you that if you call me again, I am going give your number to the police.”

I squirmed in my bed, hoping that this unknown person wouldn’t crash through my bedroom window, I waited for a response.

Eventually my phone buzzed on the dresser-board. It was the creeper. He apologized for his behavior and stopped.

However, he should have never crossed me and disrupted my dreams. I purchased an iTunes app that would disguise my number and I called this creeper, on my own terms.

Once again this person did not pick up, but voicemail did kick in. I left him a stirring message in a Hannibal Lecter voice:
“Hello, Michael. It’s been some time. You should really shut you windows. Ta, ta, see ya ‘round.”

After 20 minutes of waiting, I called back, “That’s good, Michael, very good. Never know who’s peeping in. Okey-dokey, sweet dreams. Here we go.”

I hope, wherever this person happened to be, that he actually closed his windows and feared just for a moment. I like my dreams too much to be interrupted by an intoxicated fool.

Tyler Smith is a student at UW-River Falls.