Icky Strangeness

I had this dream last night.

I know other people's dreams are generally the most tedious thing in the whole history of tedious things (which let's face it, is long), but... It was one of those dreams that was so weird, you feel the need to talk about it. But it was also pretty disturbing. And I'm worried I might scare you all off.

One of the most disturbing things was not the content, but my reaction to it within the dream.

Um...

OK, so there was this guinea pig. A small cute tortoiseshell thing...

And I was eating it. Alive. Munching away quite happily as though it was one of those snacks-on-the-go, while I was in the midst of doing other stuff. Going to a pub with a girlfriend, in fact. But after a while I got fed up. I was full up, I wasn't enjoying it, and I was slightly worried about the fact that I was eating a live animal. I thought I should make sure it was dead before abandoning it, because it would be rather cruel to leave a half-dead half-eaten animal alone to its fate. So, you know. I wasn't totally evil. But I wasn't as upset as I ought to have been.

I thought it must surely be dead, seeing as I'd eaten a good half of it. From the bottom up, all the way to its middle. I'll spare you the details, but it was a graphic dream.

I tried to get rid of it, even though it didn't appear to be dead. But I was hoping the apparent non-deadness was due to death throes, like headless chickens or chopped-in-half worms (they don't really split in two, you know) (I saw it on QI).

I then embarked on the kind of thing that happens when you have something embarrassing and inconvenient about your person and are not very principled about ditching things in inappropriate places, as long as nobody sees. I wrapped it in a bag, then a box, then just... um... dropped it on the floor, in the corner of a nightclub (which was in itself an exceptionally weird place - was more like a gay booze-fuelled Indiana Jones adventure playground, with tunnels and ladders and obstacle courses - but there's a limit to how much dream-relaying I can get away with here).

The guinea pig kept seeming to be dead, then turning out not to be. That was my dream-creating consciousness playing with me, as though I were the audience in a full-of-false-endings film. You know the kind. Is there a technical term for it? I don't know. Like this: "Eek, massive climax! Big stuff happening! And... there you go. Phew. All resolved. ... But hang on, you haven't had your money's worth yet. There's still time to fill. Let's bring the monster back to life! Watch out beind you! Argh... eek... aaah. Phew. ... But no, you deserve more than that... this film ain't over yet, come on now, we were only just getting started, we're not done yet... etc" ... as though my dream-creating self wasn't ready to wake up yet and was finding simple resolutions too boring.

I'm all ashamed of myself, embarrassed to admit that I wrapped a half-dead half-eaten (by me) guinea pig in a bag and a box and dropped it in the corner of a night club... as though you might think that if I could dream it, I could do it. Whereas in reality the worst thing I'm likely to drop in the corner of a nightclub is a half-eaten sweet, and even then I'd feel guilty about it and go back later to find it and pick it up. I'm the kind of person who unblocks toilets in public places, because I worry about them spoiling someone else's day. Even though they weren't blocked by me in the first place. That in itself is a slightly embarrassing admission... but I do wash my hands. Thoroughly. Because I'm a stickler for hygiene.

Particularly when it's guinea pigs for tea.