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Recurring Dreams
The angel on my shoulder’s swearing at me. That just has to be a bad sign. It started the other day. Kind of like that foreboding flying marmoset in my dream the other night. Don’t worry, it confused me too, especially considering I don’t know what the hell a marmoset is, let alone how I recognized it my dream. I think my subconscious is bored. It isn’t really so horrible waking up on the wrong side of the bed. That is unless your bed is against the wall. How’s that for irony? I see you eating your pop-tarts and counting the calories in a banana, but I won’t allow you to rot out my teeth with your cloying sweetness while I stand idly by. If I could make you wonder about something, to not know the answers for once, would you remember to forget it? Or the other way around? Could I make you believe that orange soda costs $ 2.00 for a large or do you, like everyone, know it’s only worth $ 1.50? Does it matter in the end? So you can take your Campbell’s soup and your death-by-chocolate brownies and shove’em. I can make macaroni and cheese out of the box. And how do you know I really didn’t once have a tail? I may be going crazy, but I’m not unlucky enough to be sane. You get the honor of that privilege. You could ask me what the hell I’m talking about, but only the marmoset knows and he’s in cahoots with that angel. Lisa Game, 1999 |