So my friend calls me the other day and says,
“Hey, I had this super sweet dream where I was an eagle flying through a sea of thorns then I rose up and changed back into myself. Then I was walking down a crowded street when I slipped and fell and nobody helped me up and then I ate a huge hamburger and shit my pants...”
"Really? Wow! That’s amazing!" Except for the fact that I really don’t give a shit. None of that actually happened to you, you’re not that cool. Telling someone about your dreams is like being forced to watch grandpa’s old 1912 vacation slide shows, except worse because your trip never actually occurred. I don’t care that you were falling or drowning or whatever weird shit you were dreaming about. Nobody wants to hear it, save us some time. And no I don’t want to help you psychoanalyze your dream either because that’s also a load of bullshit.
The worst is when a friend is telling you about a dream where you were actually in it, that shit scares me.
“So I had a dream where you and I were in Mongolia fighting hordes of locusts.”
And? So? Actually I wish we were there so I could chop your head off: barbarian style.
I don’t think I could possibly care any less about dreams…
They’re not real…
Shut up, you’re making me sleepy.
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