"I Have Boring Dreams."

     For most people, dreaming at night is something taken for granted.  You go to sleep, wake up, go to school naked, wake up again, slay a mythical creature, wake up one last time and go to school again.  Most people should enjoy their dreams more, because some people, like me, simply have Boring Dreams.

     That's right, I have Boring Dreams, and I know I'm not the only one.  The next time all of your friends are over, start talking about that "really cool and exciting dream" you had the night before.  You know that guy who says, "I can't ever remember my dreams..."?  Well, that guy is me, and let me tell you, I'm lying through my teeth- I just don't want to tell anyone about my Boring Dream.  Same goes for that uppity girl who declares, "I don't dream," like she thinks she's better than you or something.  Why are you friends with her, anyway?  And you know that really pathetic guy who says he's too tired to even come over because he's got to get up two hours before work because he's too anal retentive to adjust his rountine?  Well, that's me, too, but that has nothing to with dreaming at all.

     Anyway, back to that whole Boring Dream thing:

     OK, here's the deal:  I do occasionally have a cool dream.  When I do, it's usually something very surreal and cryptic, and the first words out of my mouth in the morning are "what the hell?"  For the most part, however, my dreams are just plain ol' boring.

     Now when I say 'boring,' I don't mean that only nine things exploded instead of the ten required to bump a dream into that much-coveted 'exciting' category.  I mean nothing explodes.  Nothing.  No one famous is there; I'm not being chased by skeletons or skiing Swiss spies or Chef Paul Prudhomme- I'm not being chased by anyone.  We're talking Yawn-Sigh-Let's-Change-The-Channel,-Dear Boring with a Capital B.   Here, let me give you an example:

     For the past two weeks, I had the unfortunate experience of having a recurring Boring Dream, as if one wasn't enough.  The entire dream consisted of me driving down a highway, maintaining a constant speed of 65 m.p.h.  Sure, I had the occasional exciting lane change, but that's about it.  No swerving, drunken motorists, no jumps through rings of Hellfire, no half-crazed Highway Asphalt Sharks.  Just me.  In my car.  Driving.

     Last week, when I was visiting my friends in Boston, I had a slight variation in this sequence- I actually parked- in the exact same tiny space in Brookline that I actually parked in, and when I went back to the car after walking around aimlessly (instead of driving the whole time, I suppose), I found a parking ticket on my car.  When I woke up the next day and went to check on the car, it actually did have a ticket affixed to it by Brookline's finest.

     Hooray for the subconscious.