March 21, 2018
Another nightmare.
I woke up in terror. This time, I made an effort to remember it.
I dreamed I had met up with Charity, and after that, I needed to head home. I had to take the subway, but the entrance was through a narrow opening in a boat. You had to get the angle just right and jump down into the depths of the boat, and from there make your way into the metro.
I jumped in, and behind me was supposed to come a woman, who suddenly started vomiting mustard—this disgusting yellow kind they serve in restaurants. As a result, my whole bag and my long airy skirt were covered in mustard. I started trying to clean myself off, and then my cat appeared (not Kotansky, I think, but not Danya either), and he ended up covered in the mustard vomit too.
I picked him up and began washing him off, but suddenly the water I was using started turning into a kind of plastic foam, and it got in his left eye—and the eye broke. It had a transparent outer shell, and that shell cracked. Then the cat told me in English that he couldn’t see out of his left eye anymore. I started crying and screaming, hugging him, and he clung tightly to me with his paws like he was looking for comfort. I started yelling louder, calling out for someone who, I believed, could help with my cat’s eye—and then I woke up.
July 13, 2018 – Types of standing
I’m in the radio network studio, all set to run a show on the Beatles. Everything seems fine, I’m prepared with a show script (handwritten, word by word – exactly what I want to say). Chizh (who looks a lot like my ex Vlad) has already turned on the mic. I begin reading, only to suddenly realize that I’m reading something about 1329. It says exactly, “in 1328 The Beatles….” Chizh-Vlad turns off my mic and starts yelling at me. I respond by asking him to stop yelling – after all, I’m hosting a show for him! I threaten to leave if he doesn’t stop. Then, I punch him in the head, right in the forehead! He goes flying against the window.
He immediately softens from the blow and turns the mic back on. I return to my notes, pondering how to recover from the mention of 1328, because for some reason, I resume reading about it on air. So, I come up with a fake quote from some fake ancient speaker who could potentially have been active in the 14th century. From there, I circle back to uniting us all – Beatles lovers: Chizh-Vlad, myself, and our sound engineer (responsible for broadcasting). I approach the engineer, and he introduces himself. I don’t remember his first name, but his last name was Vasiliev.
As I begin speaking again, I realize that I don’t know what to say. Chizh saves the moment by starting a very intelligent speech with the following line:
— There are three types of standing.
I respond in complete shock:
— Which are – standing, laying, and sitting.
At that moment, engineer Vasiliev starts marching in one spot and flapping his arms. I comment on what he’s doing on air:
— Our engineer is currently marching, but I am positive it’s not standing. It’s walking.
Then I wake up and start thinking: why are laying and sitting considered types of standing? And is crushing a type of standing, as an alternative to laying?
August 17, 2018
I dreamed of love and a wedding. I had such a wonderful fiancé—I kept kissing him nonstop. His family had organized everything.
Only… they forgot little Danka in a carrier in some apartment for two whole days! I came to rescue her, and there she was, just sitting and waiting—such a little sweetheart.
I woke up—and it’s Friday today!
August 18, 2018
A young guy—maybe around 28—started courting me. Young. Oh.
So he came over, and somehow we ended up on the bed to watch a movie. I said I’d skip university that day—it was already nearly 11 a.m., so what was there left to skip, really…
We started watching something. I cuddled up to him, and he wrapped his arm around my shoulder. And then I noticed… I noticed…
I noticed that on his feet were light gray cotton summer socks pulled almost up to his knees, like knee-highs. And his shoes? Completely covered in glitter—blue sandals with thick 12-centimeter heels (just like these, only blue)! And there he was, sitting cross-legged on my bed in those sandals, thinking I wouldn’t notice?!
In disbelief, I ask him, like I don’t trust my own eyes: “Are you wearing bosonozhki?”—I said it exactly like that, for some reason forgetting the word sandals. He said yes. I asked, “Are you gay?” He said yes, finally showing that he couldn’t lie anymore.
And then—chaos. He started telling me he’d actually been sent by the FBI to spy on me and was trying to signal (because my house was bugged!) that I was about to be charged with fraud (!!!). For the record, I’m an extremely law-abiding citizen—the worst I could be accused of is speeding on the highway.
In shock, trying to process everything, I began gathering some things… He was practically using hand signs to show me that they were planning to charge me on September 8.
But apparently, the FBI saw or heard that he’d cracked—and they took him away upside down in a car (he seemed unconscious, at the very least). And I realized—I was next. As they drove off, one of the FBI guys threw a small pineapple through the window. Like a calling card.
I gathered my money and hard drives and tried to hide them inside a stuffed animal.
Then my mom showed up (!) and I said, “Mom, we’ve got three pieces of news.” I wanted to tell her that my boyfriend was gay, our window had been smashed by a pineapple, and that I was about to be thrown in prison. I only got as far as, “My boyfriend is gay,” when an FBI agent who suddenly appeared started making an inappropriate joke—“Lucky him!”
I replied, “Of course. We live in Los Angeles, after all.”
Suddenly, the house filled with FBI agents—every guy had such an absurdly intelligent face, I almost turned myself in on the spot. They started rifling through the house, though I didn’t see anyone show a search warrant. I had already hidden the drives, but I realized I’d have to give up my computers.
I said, “I’m still paying off two of my four computers and the car.” (Hinting: If I were a fraud, wouldn’t I have just bought it all with cash?)
I handed one computer over and said, “Here, take this one.” Then I thought about it and said, “I can give you another. But I need the other two for now.” (As if they’d actually listen to me—ha!)
Anyway, I woke up completely bewildered.
October 4, 2018
Last night I dreamt I was trying to punch some girl in the face — the one who brought a bunch of strangers to sleep over in my house.
So I wake up, and there’s a guy lying next to me. I ask, “Who the hell are you?”
He goes, “Well, we came over after the party and crashed here.”
What party? I vaguely recall going out with my friends to some kind of party. They met some people — bar, club, whatever — and supposedly connected with this girl. My friends went home, and she brought three random dudes to sleep over at my place. One of them had crawled into bed next to me.
I went ballistic. Jumped up, wrapped myself in a sheet, and stormed into the living room where two more of them were sleeping like bunnies on the couch. I start yelling: “Get out! Get up and out! I didn’t invite you!”
They kind of got up. I walk into the kitchen — and there’s that girl, the one who brought them all, calmly eating breakfast. My food, mind you. And those two couch guys are rummaging through the fridge, towels wrapped around their waists. The nerve!
I went up to that girl, yanked her off the counter she was sitting on — turns out she was tiny, like really short. I started shaking her and raised my fist to punch her, but my fist froze in front of her face. I tried again and again, but I couldn’t do it.
Why is that, I wonder?
I’ve had dreams before where I was actually killing someone — stabbing with a knife, even. It’s like running in a dream — you think you’re sprinting, but in reality, your legs barely move. And I couldn’t beat this chick up. I ended up tossing her out the door. Threw her guy friends out too.