Nightmare on Viagra street. The prequel.

I rarely ever dream. It’s not because I’m a soulless bitch and hope has been replaced by Xanax. I mean that’s also true. But what I mean is I’m usually medicated/blacked out when I go to sleep so my mind is a dead zone. No cell service, no brain function; I’m basically Terri Schaivo. (Yes, I’m quite aware I’m the worst person on the planet, bye.)

Sometimes though after a hard day of dealing with dipshits and pee pads and cat litter strewn about my entire home, I’m girl down with only half the normal amount of meds and booze. This was the situation a couple of nights ago and I had a dream. Actually, it may be better qualified as a mother fucking nightmare.

I’m ashamed to admit that I had a sex dream about an ex-boyfriend. I know. It’s plagued me for days and last night I was so scared to go to sleep I took two sleeping pills and drank a whole bottle of wine so today I have the shakes and some fucked up wonk eye. (Just a reminder guys, I’m totally single and available. Tweet me.)

I wouldn’t have minded a super hot sex dream. At this point I probably have cob webs in my vagina and the other day I sneezed and swear dust flew out of my basement. But this wasn’t a super hot sex dream. This was a realistic nightmare.

I don’t think I need to go into super specific details about my dream. Actually, fuck it. You’re getting the raw dog version of this dream. No protection. If I have to live with this, so do you.

My nightmare started out at some party in a basement. Like the basement in someone’s parents’ house, so clearly even in my dream life I’m hanging out with some bottom feeders. Dream big? NOPE. I’ll dream small thanks very much. Anyway, so I’m with some people that my sleeping pill made up because I don’t know these bitches. But I have a boozy drink in my hand so things aren’t too bad. Then I spot the ex. I wasn’t surprised to see him, so I’m immediately suspicious of my dream self that she’s being a little hoe and showed up here on purpose. TRAITOR!

The ex approaches and some awkward small talk ensues. This is when I had to check myself and make sure this wasn’t real life because awkward small talk is my real life, in my dream life I’m nailing everything always. So I took a drink and it tasted more like ginger ale than liquid drainer so I knew this wasn’t real. My real life drink would have murdered my liver already. (Dream Jenn you need to step up your boozing game, seriously.) All of a sudden I’m inviting the devil back to my house. TO DO SEX. WHAT IS HAPPENING!?!?!? It was at this point that I know my real life self barfed in her mouth because I woke up with the worst acid reflux ever.

So we’re walking back to my house, holding hands which again reassured me this wasn’t real life because we never were hand holders, and Dream Jenn feels like this is totally ok. We get to my house and it’s furniture in a god damn park. I don’t have a house. I have the set-up of a house in a fucking park without walls, doors, a ceiling. Even my Dream Life is a fucking tragedy. I may have roaches, termites and nails coming out of my floor in my real life home, but at least I have a fucking ceiling. Is it too late for my mom to have an abortion?

Dream Jenn realizes, oh shit, I sleep in a park where people walk around. We can’t go to Pound Town here. I mean it just wouldn’t be very romantic if a homeless person made this a double penetration situation without my permission and a STD check printout first. So then we make the responsible decision to just go to a stranger’s house and walk in. Totally normal. Nothin weird about that. At this point the entire dream universe is telling me I’m making a bad decision. Bare backing with Charlie Sheen would be a better decision than the one I’m making right now. But one thing I’m not is a quitter. The hunt for the D will go on.

We find a stranger’s house. Walk right in. Maybe I’m not making a bad decision because this plan has worked out perfectly. Empty house. Comfy looking bed. I’m about to swallow so many mistakes right now. Things are getting serious but his penis is like a sad, shriveled hose. It’s just there. Not doing anything. I mean I didn’t expect it to put on tap shoes and give a performance (though how RAD would that be!?) but I at least expected it to stand at attention. I’m just staring at this sad penis and neither one of us are talking. (Again I had to double check this wasn’t real life because I’m not having fun yet.) And then, his dick falls off. Let me say that again…HIS DICK FALLS OFF OF HIS BODY AND HITS THE FLOOR. That thing goes down harder and faster than Miley Cyrus on a bong. It was the dick splat heard round the world.  

Even in my dream life dudes are disappointments. Seriously!? I live in a bed in a park and that’s not the worst thing in my life? Jesus Christ.

Now every time someone utters the phrase “man of my dreams” I’m going to picture a sad dick, lying on the floor, completely useless and crushing all hope. My patronus would be a limp dick. Take that Voldemort! I just threw a sad dick in your face! (Yeah, I brought it back to Harry Potter. Fuck off.) Get a gun.

Turns out if you do some dream analysis research and look up a dream like this you get one answer: no. So much no. Do I need therapy? Should I get hypnotized and let someone poke around and see what the fuck is wrong with me? Do they still do lobotomy’s? Does Blue Shield pay for that? Do I have a brain tumor? Is it because I ate cheese before I went to bed? Help. I’m applying for a life alert again. This has to qualify me.

If you have nightmares about sad dicks, I’m not sorry because I shouldn’t have to be in this alone. The lesson I’ve learned? Always protect yourself and double pill and double wine. Every time.