Here’s the strangest set of dreams I’ve had in a very long while. (Considering how strange my dreams almost always are, you know you’re in for something a might trippy.)
Things began with me in a hospital. I don’t know what the reasons for me being there were (probably psychological reasons), but John Lithgow was there. No, I can’t recall whether he was part of the staff or a patient nor can I recall him actually doing or saying anything, but he was there just the same.
Then things got odd. I found myself in a supermarket, where I donned a Superman-esque costume with an inverted colour scheme (think blue-and-red rather than red-and-blue) and began flying around. Orderlies from the hospital were there, trying to capture me, but I flew too fast for them to catch me. Then I was back at the hospital (I think). There I met the Smallville Superman and got into an argument with him; I criticized him for turning Clark Kent into a simpering disguise and engaged him in a philosophical debate over what it meant to be Clark Kent.
Then I found myself at home. I was no longer wearing the costume, but I could still fly. I can often fly in my dreams; it’s my dream power, you could say. I can’t usually fly very high, though; often, it’s closer to levitation than true flight most of the time. This time, however, I was going higher than I ever had before. It was a mild, sunny day, and I could touch the treetops; it was exhilarating. As I’d always wanted to know what my house rooftop looked like, I wanted to fly up there. I still couldn’t quite fly that high. Luckily for me, Laurie Metcalf was there to give me a hand. Boosting me up, I was able to fly up high enough to grab hold of the roof’s edge. Unfortunately, it turned out the entire roof was rotten; unable to support my weight, that entire side of the roof gave way; I fell to the ground along with pieces of rotten, waterlogged siding.
The dream then turned creepy. I was suddenly in my old bedroom. As ominous ambient music played in the background, I watched as the ceiling slowly disintegrated, crumbling under the pressure of the waterlogged insulation sitting above it.
Then I found myself in a video store. There were two different BD sets of Jeffrey Combs horror movies available, on sale for only literally a couple bucks each. Unfortunately, I didn’t even have $2 on me, so I couldn’t buy either one.
Then I found myself watching a Rod Stewart music video. He was driving around the outskirts of a suburb with a blonde in a black convertible at night. Did I mention he was Rod Stewart? Yeah, he was – even though he looked like David Bowie and sounded like Mick Jagger. Anyway, as they drove around, night turned to day, the black convertible turned to a white minivan, and the blonde turned into an entourage of several men. Suddenly, I found myself in the music video. The minivan pulled up beside me, Stewart’s entourage got out, and this one man – a police officer with his face caked in mud – pushed me to the ground and apprehended me.
I was taken to an insane asylum, and who should happen to be the attending psychologist but Patrick Bateman! Dr. Bateman was too busy treating other patients with chainsaws and blowtorches to see me right away. Luckily for all concerned, John Saxon was there to save the day. Dressed in pink sweatshirt and sweatpants, he confronted Bateman. Pulling two flare guns out from the waistband of his sweatpants, he asked Bateman if he was feeling lucky. Bateman, pussy that he is, couldn’t stand up to the Saxon and surrendered almost immediately without resistance.