Look, Ma

I have always marvelled at the people who have rich dream lives full of adventure and detail. How do they do it? And remember it? Some people wake up and reach for a pen and paper so they can write down the song they just composed in their sleep. But that's never happened to me.

Until the other night.

I woke up pretty upset, because the most vivid part of the dream had been about this really sick (that's sick-disgusting, not sick-cool) bug. It was big as a scorpion and totally sentient. And it was after me, man, waggling its glassy blue thorax as it scuttled along in pursuit, no matter where I went.

Eventually, I escaped and found a friend with whom I could share this fresh horror. When I awoke, I remembered singing to her. I needed no pencil; it was branded in my memory as clearly as that first shitty Nickelback song of the day that complains out of the alarm clock. My song was ominous and campy, like something from 'Nightmare Before Christmas'. And apropos of nothing. It went a little like this:

Mr. Peanut, Mr. Peanut
Tell me how you do it
Mr. Peanut, Mr. Peanut, Mr. Peanut.

Hallelujah Sonofabitch, I've been given the gift of exceptional mediocrity. Stay tuned for dream-borne Pine-Sol commercials.