Crazy shit lady

Temporarily living back with my parents, I was walking around the perimeter of their cul-de-sac.  Rural cul-de-sacs are not like urban ones; they are surrounded not by other streets and houses but by fields and long-distance A-roads.  A madwoman had started trespassing in my parents’ garden.  She shouted at me as I walked past, wanting me to entertain her with my company, and getting aggressive when I didn’t stop to talk.

Later that week, she stole one of my Mum’s fabric aprons from the kitchen and disappeared it into the garden.  When Mum demanded it back, the madwoman returned it sure enough, rolled up into a tight ball.  Our two cats, one black-and-white and one tabby, were investigating the scene, the fur on their backs twitching with displeasure.

We unrolled the apron with a sense of dread, which turned out to be well-founded as the bundle contained a large quantity of the woman’s own semi-liquid shit.  I don’t often have lucid dreams where I can control the outcome, but on this occasion my subconscious intervened and said that’s just too disgusting.  At least make it solid.  So I viewed the exact same scene again, this time with firmer stools in the apron, which may have been slight consolation to my Dad who had to dispose of them.


which is worse – disappointing sex or disappointing breakfast?

Two boys of about eighteen or nineteen, who shared a bedroom as students.  One saw his various sexual conquests as a sign of his machismo and boldness.  The other considered lust to be shameful and weak, and regularly told his room-mate that his behaviour was sinful.  In reality, their sex lives differed very little, and each one was writing a confessional memoir.  Both books featured the same sex object, a girl who both young men were regularly sleeping with, and whose name had one letter different from mine.

A would-be erotic dream where I’m in bed, possibly in a hotel, with an unidentified casual who (according to the dream) I’ve seen a few times before.  But he’s unattractively sweaty and I’m considering telling him I don’t want to meet again after today.  He climaxes (I think?) and sort of half-heartedly suggests starting again after he’s had a rest, but he sounds grumpy at the idea of having to attend to my pleasure, and I’m not sure I can stomach it anyway.

Staying the night a hotel with my mum and Sibling. We met in the restaurant for breakfast, but since I don’t do well at mornings, the other two were there before me.  I arrived just after 10am to find that the restaurant, which was Portugese-influenced, had stopped serving its breakfast menu.  Apparently, the Portugese don’t really have specially designated breakfast foods, so fry-ups and cereal were only served as a concession to unadvanturous guests before 10am.  After that, you picked from the standard restaurant menu that was available all day.  I had some kind of lightly spiced pork and rice concoction, which was delicious but not the eggs royale I’d had in mind.  Next to our table, another family (middle-aged parents, teenage or young adult children) were kicking up a stink about the restaurants total disregard to its customers’ needs. Coming over here, taking away our food-based traditions…

Not today.

Let’s start with a pre-cognitive dream.

My friend Helen and I were in the bathroom at my parents’ house, supposedly getting ready to go out. But she had a stomach ache and felt sick. She curled up in the bathroom cabinet, clutching her stomach; I could see she was really in intense pain.

She asked for a bucket to puke in, but I didn’t want to go round the house looking for one. I tried not to show that I really just wanted to hurry out for an evening of fun, and didn’t want to have to look after a vomiting person. I offered her a measuring jug, cringing inwardly at the thought that it might not hold as many chunks as were about to come out.

To my relief, what came out of Helen’s mouth was a perfect, lightly fried egg. I emptied the egg into the bath and it plopped slimily into the tub like a fish.

Each time I held the jug to Helen’s chin, she produced another egg, which slid into the bath with the others.

WTF, subconscious?

What stands out to me about this dream is my reluctance to help my friend beyond what was strictly convenient for me. I felt impatient and at least a little bit disgusted at her predicament. (Sorry mate!) I think it’s suggesting that I feel over-burdened or compromised by looking after other people’s needs. I’m torn between not wanting to be selfish, and resenting those who do encroach on what I hoped was going to be fun-time for me.

Dreaming of our parents’ / childhood homes (which I do a lot) generally suggests some unresolved issues from our upbringing. The feelings of not wanting to let other people’s needs compromise my own – but not wanting to let on that I feel that way – are ones that I recognise. And presumably they stem from childhood.


Helen and I actually were going out together the following evening. But why eggs, I had no idea.

We were going to a comedy gig (Bianca Del Rio’s Not Today, Satan, if you’re curious), and before that we went for dim sum. I ordered a daring selection of seafood, and Helen went for vegetarian delicacies, including some caramel buns, which came nestled in a bamboo steamer like eggs in a basket.

She couldn’t finish the last one, so we cut it in half. And this is what I saw:



So when I came to write this blog, I searched the internet to show you caramel buns looking like cooked eggs…

But Google went one step further.



What. The actual. Fuck.

…I hope you’ve enjoyed this, my first ever post on wtfsubconscious? You can use the contact page to send me any comments, questions, suggestions on how to make this blog more awesome, or dreams of your own that you’d like to share.

Catch you again soon!