I rarely remember my dreams, and usually they dissolve from my memory within minutes of waking up. But recently I’ve been having crazy-vivid dreams, so I thought I would share a few of them. The dreams I remember the most fall into two categories: either they’re about me kissing someone, or they’re about me regretting something.
Dream #1: I purchased a grey suede Marc Jacobs briefcase for $1600. I don’t know why I purchased this, or how, but I apparently did. The color was bomb; and I think a rich, charcoal-silver grey suede is one of the most chic things ever.
Now, weirdly enough, I can kind of explain these dreams. Firstly, the grey suede Marc Jacobs briefcase: the previous day I was watching Rich Kids of Beverly Hills—an all-time favorite of mine—and one of the characters—is it called a character if it’s a reality show?—who is an interior decorator, was looking at sofas and saw this bomb grey suede sofa and it was luxurious.
Rich Kids of Beverly Hills holds a special place in my heart. Primarily, it’s an amazing show that has really given me the gift of unparalleled gifs. Secondarily, on one of the only “friend-dates” I’ve ever gone on, I went over to my—now very close—friend Shelby’s room and we watched Rich Kids and bonded over our mutual love of screaming suburban mothers’ names out loud. The main star of RKOBH, Morgan Stewart, calls her mother by her first name: “Susan.” Shelby and I found that—for whatever reason—so unbelievably funny and it’s been our calling card, our inside joke, ever since. So whenever I watch RKOBH I’m reminded of Shelby and Susan and friend-dating and awkwardly asking someone I only tangentially knew to watch one of my favorite shows with me.
Side bar: another one of my friend dates was inviting over a—again, now very close—friend to watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s and eat snacks. For all intents and purposes, I’ll call him Marco. Side, side bar: wasn’t blown away by Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Side, side, side bar: will I be stabbed for saying that?
ANYWAY, ANYWAY, ANYWAY
I don’t know where the briefcase comes into the story because A) briefcases are so irrelevant know that we all have iPads and B) I’m like twelve why would I be thinking of briefcases? Regardless, in my dream I was sticking by my decision, but when I woke up—still in the haze of fresh-dream-slumber—I snatched up my phone and checked the balance of my bank account. Side bar: I just had to pay my phone bill, and now I’m like real life low-key depressed about how little is left in my account.
The briefcase dream reminded me of another dream I had, months ago when I was still in spring semester. If you’ve ever talked to me for more than ten minutes, you know that eventually I want to get tattoos. I’m waiting until I’m out of college, but it’s definitely something I’m going to do. But I’m not going to list out the tattoos I want because you’ll have to chat to me to find out—Hint, it’s going to be a pair of angel wings right over my crotch. Oops, that’s not really a hint. But anyway, in the dream, I had gotten a tattoo of the outline of the United States—continental, of course—and dotting the inside of the tattoo were stars in every place where I’ve said “I love you.”
Weirdly enough—or not weirdly enough—I only had like two stars, and both were in random places. One was in upstate New York, and one was in Colorado-area. Like, dude, I can barely point out Colorado on a map.
But in both of these dreams, I’ve woken up and still had the clinging threads of the dreams in my head. When I woke up from the tattoo, I jolted upright, looked at my wrist, saw bare skin, and then flopped back against the pillows.
The second dream—the original second dream—is a lot harder to explain. Okay, it’s impossible to explain. I love Kris Jenner and I NEVER want her to die. I would throw myself in front of a train before I ever harmed her or her Celine sunglasses. I also don’t want to analyze these homicidal dream tendencies because let’s not open up that can of worms. All I can say is that it was a nightmare and even though it was a dream, I would like to formally apologize to Kris Jenner and Scott Disick. Kris, I love you. Always. Call me. Let’s get lunch.
While writing this post, I spent a good twenty minutes perusing the Internet. Five minutes was spent reading through the Twitter handle @DrunkInaGarten and fifteen minutes was spent reading about media in Salt Lake City, Utah. I have this weird obsession—firstly with Ina—with Salt Lake City, and I’ve always fantasized about moving there, so I was looking up what media they have in the city that I can work at. And just looking at the magazines and radio stations and TV stations made me wonder how on Earth I’m going to be able to find a job where I can write whatever I want and make enough money to become friends with Ina Garten. I’m not saying Ina pays for friends; I’m just saying that there’s a definite minimum level of wealth before she’ll even turn her head towards your general direction.
How do people have their dream jobs? Maybe I shouldn’t have my dream job, because my dreams consist of buying things I can’t afford, getting horrible tattoos, and accidentally killing pop culture matriarchs. But those might classify as nightmares, so right now is this a moot point? God knows.