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I've had another installation of The Dream Epic, which is... mildly intimidating, partly because it decided to continue the plot from pretty much where it left off, which /really/ isn't normal, and partly because The Dream Epic scares me. A lot. It's a bit fuzzier this time, because I was talking about something with my mother before I got to the computer and dreams fade in the first five seconds after you wake up, or something, but I'm gonna write it here so as to have a record of its very existence. And so I can wonder whether I'll learn what happens next to our intrepid (okay, hysterical) heroine. So, like I said, it's fuzzier, but we're back somewhere, a hotel room maybe since it isn't my room in halls (so i'm fourteen and at university? doesn't that make me asuka langley?), and my brother's come down with something. So he's in his room, while my 'aunt' and me are in the elevator on the way up, which has these machines where you put in coins and take out those scary gummie sweets with the padded white half, in shapes like snakes and frogs and crocodiles and raspberries. And we take some of those out, and although I don't like them all that much I'm eating them, gorging myself on them until I worry about fitting into that damn wedding dress and feel sick, and /then/ I start crying. And I'm carefully taken up to our room, and my aunt is replaced by some close friend of mine about whom I know nothing except she's a very close friend, my age, and about as nice and understanding as you can be when you don't get what's going on except your best friend is curling up into a ball and wailing. She copes admirably, have to say. She drags me off to the bathroom, cleans up my tears, gets the full story and starts trying to make me see the brighter side. This means, she says, do you realise, that by the time everyone else is thinking of getting engaged you'll be safely settled and married. And, she says, there's a lot of cachet in experience, and you'll be the first divorcee around. That'll officially make you maturer than everyone else, and we laugh, and she takes me back to the bedroom and we slump around making a nest out of pillows and doing something girly. No idea what. The space is kind of wierdly designed, so that where we are is a bed in the lounge area, whereas my brother and my parents have actual rooms of their own - quelle fucking surprise, I /am/ the youngest, this has happened on many a holiday - and it's all futuristic-y. That was my actual dream thought: Futuristic-y. Nice to know I'm as good with words in dreams as out. And my brother comes stumbling out of his room, rubbing hand across face to erase traces of sleep, and asks us why the room's such a tip. We look around, and it is: clothes strewn about, books thrown, pillows and blankets everywhere: the remains of both my tantrum and her method of calming me down. Um," I say to him, "did you just completely miss the whole issue of my getting married to someone I've never met before in my life?" That should answer it, I think, and it does. So it's.. later? the next day? And me and my brother and my father are at the university , and I demand to know just who the hell it is I'm marrying. Which I consider to be an eminently reasonable question. And my father says, okay then, but we'll have to find somewhere to talk, and we end up in this bathroom outside a room into which several students are going for a tutorial. And because no-one else can be bothered to, but it's my future I'm finding out about and I'm damned if I'm going to learn with my father breaking off as yet another curious twentysomething pokes his head round the door, I go off to shut the door and brave the raised eyebrow of the professor on his way in to the tutorial. On the way back from fighting with the door, which is stuck, I go hysterical again while separating stacked chairs. Obviously. And my father's explanation is rambling, confused, talking about some mentally-damaged vegetable who needs to be taken care of and after a while I'm like "And you're marrying them off to /me/ so they'll be /taken/ /care/ of?" And he stops and says "/she/" and I realise that this person he's been talking about was female and thus not my intended. But he isn't getting to the point and telling me who the hell I'm supposed to be marrying. ...And then it all degenerated into the Make A Wish Foundation, the Backstreet Boys (it's never a good sign when the backstreet boys appear in your dreams... i said something along the lines of: "you're trying to impress me with the *backstreet*boys*? Do you /know/ me at all?") and a guided tour bus trip (with the backstreet boys, who were silent and huddled in a corner, which was fine with me, huddled in my own little corner snifling) through London with all the lights shiny and bright and stuff. This was of course all a cunning diversion to mask the fact that I never got told who it was I was marrying, or indeed what he had to do with the brain-damage vegetable girl.
My subconscious does /not/ like me. At all.
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