Realest Dream Ever

I've had dreams that felt real before. Many of them. Once, Bono acted like he was my friend and gave me a styrofoam cooler. Once I got that cooler loaded into the minivan I was driving, the whole thing blew up. Another time some woman I didn't even know converted me to Judaism on the side of a New York City subway platform just by touching me on the forehead.

Whether it was the allergy medication I was on, or the Ny-Quil I downed before bed to induce a good night's sleep (it didn't work, by the way; the allergies won out), last night's dream was easily the most serious and real I've had in a long while.

The exact details are a bit sketchy, but the gist of it goes like this: Matt Damon was my doctor. I must have been complaining about headaches or something, because I was in an exam room with Dr Damon and he was holding up x-rays of my head.

And in the most serious tone I've ever heard or seen from the Academy Award-winning actor, he says, "I wish I could say I have good news. What you've got is an inoperable brain tumor. I'd guess you've got about 10 more good years in you."

It hit me like a ton of bricks. There were other parts of the dream, like some random scene where members of my family (only they weren't my real family) were sorting through crystal glassware and deciding who gets it. (This may or may not have had anything to do with my terminal illness.)

But having to face my own mortality, even in the dream-addled haze of allergy medicine, was something else. It was, to say the least, quite the trip.

As far as I know - and apart from the allergies - I am in good health and should have more than "about 10 more good years" in me.

The Insanity Continues

Last night's dream:

I took a break from whatever it was I was doing to go use the bathroom. While in the bathroom, I noticed that I was uncharacteristically congested in my sinuses.

I lean over the counter to look closer in the mirror. There's a small, red object coming out of my nose. I give it a tug. Out comes a medium-sized maroon, mesh football practice jersey. Out of my nose. Removing the jersey cleared up the congestion nicely.

Then, as I'm still standing at the mirror, I notice this blemish on the side of my nose. It's ready to pop. So I give it a good pop, and out comes this insect, which then flies around the bathroom for a while.

Then I woke up.

Was Sammy Davis, Jr. Murdered?

This cold I've got has me taking NyQuil before bed. It helps to minimize my coughing so I can fall asleep.

The side effects are the dreams the NyQuil gives me. We won't get into the one the other night that involved Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley of Kiss (and Dr. Pepper) nakedly wandering into my room.

Last night was a real trip. I found out that Sammy Davis, Jr. was murdered and his body was being kept in a tomb. He had been mummified and a girl who may or may not have been Alison Brie led me to the tomb for a reason that I'm forgetting at the moment.

So Sammy Davis, Jr's mummified corpse is in this large room that was padded with tons of red pillows. And you could climb up there and look at him if you liked. So I did. He was interred alongside some other female movie star that I'm also forgetting at the moment.

The whole thing made me think - upon waking - that maybe Sammy Davis had been murdered. Turns out it's not true. He died from throat cancer in 1990 at the age of 64.