This was a dream recollection from January of 2008, posted on my old blog that's tucked away and ignored like a grandma in a nursing home. It's one of my favorites, though. Like grandma, it's a little loopy, kind of sick, and doused in blue eyeshadow. But she's a nice woman, so, despite those shortcomings, do stop by...and stay a while. Maybe stay...forever. heh heh
It was a dark and stormy night, like a Frank Miller graphic novel where the rain drops look like white slashes against an ink black sky. Of course, it was really below zero with a light wind, but my dream has no concept of what is appropriate weather in the middle of January. So, in my dream, it was a dark and stormy night. I’m on a rooftop, dressed in impossibly short cut off jean shorts and a red halter top. It dawns on me: I’m a prostitute. But these golden locks slipping through my fingers are definitely not mine.
Okay, it’s going to be one of those dreams. I’m merely a character in my dream movie. I know that I, Brenda Davis, am not a prostitute, but my experience within this dream is that of an un-named prostitute.
Hey look, there’s Robert DeNiro crouching at the roof’s edge. “You working tonight?” he asks, with a glint in his eyes. I thought he was into some jungle fever, not blonde haired hookers on a rooftop in the rain.
“Nah, I did so many guys last night, I’m taking the night off.” Oh. My. God. Did that just come out of my mouth?!
In a flash of speed, DeNiro steps aside, revealing a dead body. Curious, I step closer and crouch for a better look. With a maniacal laugh, he takes my picture and, though he told me of no such plans, I knew he was taking the photo to the police station to frame me for murder.
It didn’t occur to me that the police might wonder who took the picture, thus still giving me the potential for innocence. So instead, I fled the rooftops to find someplace to hole up while I waited for this whole thing to blow over.
I headed someplace natural for a prostitute. I went to Brad Pitt’s house.
Only Brad Pitt was a Jamaican with shoulder length dreadlocks. Sure, why not!
“Brad, I need a place to stay! DeNiro just framed me for murder!”
Brad wordlessly leads me into his house, which is filled with numerous rooms and winding hallways. We stop in a kitchen the size of a bathroom and he digs out his bong.
“Don’t worry,” he smiled. “Let’s just relax.”
“I need to take a shower,” I blurted.
I walked up several flights of stairs to find Brad Pitt’s bathroom. Only, beyond his bathroom was another bathroom that belonged to his roommate. She was a dark haired woman, faceless in my dream, but noticeably naked. I did a quick check of my own body and was relieved to find I still had on clothes. Though hoochy, they were still covering my naughty bits. I was grateful it wasn’t one of those dreams.
“You can take a shower in here,” she smiled, answering a question I hadn’t yet thought to ask.
I shrugged and headed for the mirror.
“Gah!” My hands flew to my face in absolute horror.
Frosted blue eyeshadow! I began wildly rubbing my eyelids with my index fingers, desperate to get rid of this fashion no-no from my face. It was useless, though. The shade of blue only became darker and more obnoxious. I’ll let some hot, soapy water give it a try.
The shower was one of those uprights, encased in frosted glass, so you only see ghosts of objects beyond its distorted panels. The water was hot on my skin. The first order of business was getting rid of this trashy eyeshadow.
As I was furiously scrubbing, I noticed flashes of light, like a camera flash, piercing through my closed eyelids. I creaked open the shower door. Ms. Nameless-and-Naked had dumped the dead body of a child in front of the shower and was taking pictures.
Twice framed in one day!
I did what was only natural. I gave her the finger and shouted, “You’re a fucking cunt!”
And then I woke up totally and utterly convinced that I need professional, mental help.
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