Have you ever woken up from sleeping and found that you have fresh memories of just doing something, somewhere that is not in your pajamas in bed? Have you felt insane because of these “false memories”? Well don’t feel insane, because what you have experienced is a very common thing called “dreaming.” Everyone does it! Even dogs and cats.
Dreams use a part of your brain called the Imagination Zone. When this zone is activated, imagination glands crank out a slime that gives you creative thoughts. Sometimes, it is used when you are awake, in order to imagine solutions, or to predict possible consequences. The Imagination Zone is the bustling factory that allows you, after enough practice, to imagine absurd scenarios that are very impossible, but generally fun.
When you sleep, it is not really a little death. Your body still lives without you wakefully monitoring it, and this includes the zone mentioned in the last paragraph. While you sleep, it still produces thoughts and visions. Although without your conscious mind cautioning it for being too zany, it will go off the rails and sometimes even throw house parties even though it is a factory setting. But a factory location can be the best place to host a party, didn’t you know?
We have a lot of fears. Some make sense; others, not so much. This latter type will be featured once monthly until we run out of material, at which point, we might begin accepting the fears of our readers.
Welcome to my irrational fear that makes me so uncomfortable that I have never allowed myself to think about it for very long. I wince when I consider it. Perhaps I should start with a little backstory.
When I was about seven years old, I had a series of night terrors where I would wake everyone in my family up at night because I was screaming horribly. The dream always started the same, with me being within one of five beams of light that appeared to be both moving and still, somewhat eternal or infinite I guess. But I’d be hurtling through space, then veer of towards Earth where I was suddenly me, as a child, in a weird dystopian service station somewhere. Eventually, the dream always ended when some space technology that had been harnessed and not fully understood would go haywire and there’d be repetition that was speeding up exponentially until I woke up FREAKING OUT.
I also hated (and still hate) night time windows being uncurtained because I don’t want things looking in. And also, I don’t like to look up at the night sky in case I see something I can’t explain. These things have bothered me for a really long time and there was one day in my teens that I wondered if I had been abducted, and I immediately stopped thinking about it. But by now, I worry about what if I am actually an alien and that’s why I don’t understand screaming or dancing. And why I see people in buffet lines and feel like I am observing livestock. Have I forgotten who I am and why I’m here? Have I gone totally insane, or am I just really close to it all the time? Halp.
We all know that I’m no luckier in love than I am in cards. Without realizing at first, I’ve dated abusive men, racists, actual monsters. No less than three of my boyfriends have read my conversations with Amandoll. Two have punched furniture inches away from me. One punched me.
But none of that is very funny, and this post isn’t about my traumatic experiences with men who later stalk me. This post is about a more important thing: red flags in dating. I’ve compiled a list of urgent details to consider when considering that special someone.
Our friend, NickW, returns to us on this day. I didn’t mention in the last comic featuring him that he is an Australian. That is a very important thing to remember as you read this. Although, I guess it is pretty obvious because I keep mentioning it throughout our chat. Anyway, one of my favorite things (on certain days — other days I am tired and I get aggravated) is to explore the differences in our English language. There are a lot of dumb, needless differences! It is amazing that we can communicate at all.
Christians are all around us in many forms. Some of them are very self-righteous and will not rest until we heathens are converted. Others are peaceful and kind and sort of like really clean hippies who make brownies and baked goods which are found to be “special” only in the way that they have been baked with Good Christian Love. No, that still is not an herbal kind of love, but believe me, there are those kinds of Christians, too. Christians who won’t let their women dance or wear trousers, Christians who love everyone equally, Christians who hate the gays and the immigrants and those minorities, Christians in politics, Branson, Missouri, bad Christian films. In fact, there are as many kinds of Christians as there are different kinds of personality on earth! Well, all except one. You see, there are just not any creative Christians, apparently. At all.
In their zeal to forward the good message of Jesus Christ, it seems that Christians completely give up their potential for imaginative thoughts. The more cynical of us would say that that is the primary function of religion, to erase creativity because creative thinking would possibly lead to the kind of thinking that makes the thinker think that what they are dedicating their lives to, this blind faith, might be a little stupid. And thinking like that WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.
Sorry about bringing up clowns again, so soon, and outside of Halloween Season, and it’s not like I even love clowns all that much! And I’m not even saying that I am obsessed with them, but even so — obsessions don’t understand your notions of there being appropriate times or places. In fact, an obsession wouldn’t comprehend the word “inappropriate” at all, or “creepy” for that matter. And neither do I!
Anyway, I saw this beautiful gif the other day, while I was living on the internet as I do, and I became mesmerized with a thought. Mr. Rogers was a good man, a saint, and is very definitely a saint in our Sneerholic pantheon. He represents all that can be good in the world and is without blame. You know how we feel about him. On the other hand, clowns are commonly known to be evil, I guess, in these modern times. They are frightening and often up to no good. ALLEGEDLY. There are plenty of kind clowns out there, clowning for the sick and in parades, but every single one of us suspects their motives. Each of us wonders what possibly-literal skeletons are in the closets of their murderhouses. Thanks, John Wayne Gacy!
One of the most commonly viewed horror films belonging to the silent film era, Nosferatu is, without a doubt, a creepy creepy German film. We have all at least seen footage of it, have seen still images of that awful Count Orlok lurching around all wide-eyed and gangly and long-horrible-fingered. Dreadful. But what of the film itself? Well, for those of you not in the know, I’ll tell you.
A fondness or craving for sweets is the definition of “sweet tooth,” according to the internet, with help from Google.
Many times in my young life, I have heard people excuse their penchant for sugary treats by referring to the fact that they possess such a “tooth.” I have news for everyone. It’s not a good excuse. Pedophiles aren’t excused from child-touchery because they are fond of it, nor should people be excused of their sticky, disgusting habit out of fondness for sugar.
It surprises no one, I’m sure, to discover that my secret hidden talent and life path dream is to become the slogan generator of a tourism board somewhere — anywhere! My old pal Esther came to me one day, long ago, with news coming from that harrowing icy land that is so very, very far away. It was a genius effort on their part to generate interest, I’m sure. And that’s all! So I decided to help, too. Then I decided to REALLY help by making it a comic that other people might actually see. I’m sure I didn’t need to convince Esther all that much, after all.
Click on the comic below if you want to see the adorable detail or whatever. And Siberia, you can thank me later for the good I have done here.
Your friend has hit a rough spot and, for whatever reason, you have stepped up to aid them in their time of need. When you invite a friend to stay in your home until their lives stabilize, until they stop weeping at night, until they get a job — ANY job — and find a place of their own to live, you may not realize exactly what you are about to do. You may think to yourself, “This man or woman has been my friend for X number of years, I feel fondness for them and would like to give them sanctuary from their troubles. After all, were I in their place, I would hope that I had a good person to help me out.” But you fail to acknowledge that this person will be using your furniture, your bathroom, your cooking utensils. They will be all over your living space. They will probably even look in your bedroom when everyone else is out working.
Basically you’ve gone above and beyond the call of friendship. You may think that because you are being so kind as to do all of this, what with the inconveniencing your life to an extent and shaking up your day-to-day, your friend would be more than happy to do the one or two things you ask of them. No sir.
You see, when you invite a friend to live with you, something happens to them. They change into a monster. Many of you have seen this happen with real room mates, but the complexities of the Room Mate is a topic for another article on another day. Friends who are staying with you as guests do not have to pay rent, or bills. They often feel like real guests, although they start out as overly grateful ones.