So, I've been having some shockingly asinine dreams lately. I used to have crazy complex dreams with loads of symbolism and depth, but recently my dreams have been on par with those of a tiny child. For example, I recently dreamt about eating ice cream with a male friend of mine from London. This is highly unrealistic as he and I usually opted for copious amounts of booze and cigarettes rather than innocent sweet treats. Apparently, my subconscious has regressed back to simpler times. Oh, well, I thought, I enjoy ice cream and good company, I'll just call that a pleasant anomaly and move on.
Not so. A couple of nights ago I experienced another charmingly simplistic dream. This time, subconscious came up with "Marisa Adopts a New Puppy". Ok, I can get on board with that, who doesn't love puppies? From what I can remember, however, the puppy I chose to adopt (from a homeless man outside Rite Aid with a cage full of a random assortment of different breeds. Yea, my brain is cracked out) was a particularly ornery teacup yorkshire terrier (and I would be ornery too, if someone dyed my hair BRIGHT GREEN. Yup, green.). So that was basically the dream, or what I remember of it. Getting a mean, green yorkie from a homeless dude outside a drug store. Touche, subconscious. But, really? That's all you can come up with these days, ice cream and puppies?! I don't even want to think about what that means for my life.
The good news is, as of this morning, it seems that my subconscious is slowly maturing from small child to junior high school girl. But first, a confession. I am shamelessly addicted to television shows that are set in high school. Since the first time 12 year old Marisa laid eyes on the wonders of Dawson's Creek, she was hooked. Gossip Girl? I talk about it like Blair and Serena are my BFFs, for reals (But not really Serena, she's kind of whacked in the head and I would rather jam a salad fork into my own eyeball than listen to her speak for more than 30 seconds. Is anyone still reading this?). Anyway, my latest fan favorite (and if you haven't seen this little gem yet, you should kill yourself now. But really, watch it first) is "ABC Family's newest summer hit" Pretty Little Liars. O.M.F.G. And a new obsession is born. I don't even know why, but I look forward to this show All.Week.Long. First of all, I am obsessed with the names of characters in high school television dramas. There's always one girl who's super smart and has a boy's name (think Joey from the Creek). In PLL, it's Spencer. If my parents named me Spencer, I'd murder them in their sleep. Then, there's the one with the weirdo name because it sucks when there's like 25 other "Ashleys" in your class, doesn't it? Had anyone ever heard of the names Dawson and Pacey before Dawson's Creek came on? Weirdo names. Pretty Little Liars takes it a step further. Weirdo/Pretentious names. The main pretty little liar chick is named Aria. Like from an opera. Shut your facehole. I love it, I really do. Why, oh why, couldn't my parents have named me something like Aria (Maestro? Libretto? Lyric Soprano?)?? I will never forgive them.
What does any of this have to do with my childlike psyche? Well, in my latest dream, I was a new teacher at this fictional high school from this show (which is depressing on so many levels, I can't even talk about it), and when I was about to accidentally walk into the mens room instead of the ladies (Eff my life, I'm even awkward in my dreams now), who stopped my whacky ass but Mr. Fitz, the aggressively good looking 26 year old English Lit teacher from Pretty Little Liars who is having a very, very inappropriate (read: very, very HOTT) relationship with little 16 year old Aria on the show. His first name is Ezra, by the way. Another weirdo. Anyway, in my dream, Mr. Fitz, like, totally GETS me. He is even charmed by my obsession with politics and the fact that I'm a registered Republican. I know, seriously WHERE CAN I GET ONE, am I right? AND, I'm age appropriate, unlike his current illicit conquest (seriously, high school bitches need to stop swimming in my pool. I'm not getting any younger). So he's all We should hang and I'm all giddy and drooling on myself, but somehow I manage a
HELLS YEA and scamper back to my classroom, the heels of my Louboutins-on-a-teacher's-salary clicking merrily down the corridor as Mr. Fitz watches me walk away with a longing look in his eye. Dream over. Sigh. Where was I going with this, again?
Oh, right. So deep down inside, underneath the expensive degrees, designer clothing, and rapier wit, my subconscious is a 13 year old girl in a Limited Too tshirt and a training bra, who likes puppies and has posters of Leonardo DiCaprio circa 1998 all over her bedroom walls. Winner.
In honor of my newfound self-discovery (and because lately I've been going through books faster than a fat kid with a sleeve of oreos), I went to the bookstore again yesterday and chose the cheesiest title I could lay my hands on. The cover of the book alone makes it impossible for me to be seen reading it in public. But it's about unreasonably wealthy young girls, and if you lived with my parents, you would need escapism too. My newest literary adventure is called Daughters of Fortune (of course it is) by Tara Hyland, and I plan to thoroughly soak up every painfully unrealistic moment of it. Don't judge me.
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