In which her brain doesn't really sleep
I had a really striking and disturbing dream last night. If this dream were a film or a play, it'd be criticized, I'm sure, as a "hamfisted feminist allegory."
So, you see, I had to transcribe it immediately.
There are a lot of disturbing elements contained within, though, so be mindful of that.
The Dream:
In the beginning, I was kidnapped, sort of, by a group of men. They were dragging me down a set of wooden stairs and onto a dirty operating table. At the forefront of this excursion were my parents and the rockabilly dick I dated ever-so-briefly. I knew that my parents were paying Rockabilly Dickhead to perform a medical procedure that would alter my demeanor in some way. Then, suddenly, I was floating above my own supine-yet-conscious body. As I watched from above, my parents quietly watched Rockabilly Dickhead cram a handful of shining steel implements into my newly exposed frontal lobe. He gloated incessantly about what his actions were doing to my person while he did them and how this would change me, ultimately, for the better. I would be quieter, not that mean, and almost never defiant. I'd be sweet.
"Now she'll be as sweet as she looks."
Then it was all over. I stood in front of a mirror and looked at myself. As part of the procedure, my tongue had been surgically shortened and I had a hard time speaking. It took a conscious effort to speak and speak well. I quickly found that, when I made that effort, I spoke with a clearer, deeper, voice that sounded a lot richer to me. I liked my new voice.
Later in the dream, I found myself in a dingy convenience store, somewhere in the UK. The convenience store was called "Wolly Wogs" and, at that particular moment, was hosting a Karaoke Night for queer youth. There was an old karaoke machine on a small, wooden stage in front of a few rows of folding chairs.
The attendees were all white, male, skinhead punks who were very poor singers. They didn't care about the fact that they couldn't sing well and found the whole thing incredibly funny in an "ironic" way. Singing at this particular event, however, was very important to me because I generally had such a difficult time speaking, much less singing. I knew that, when I was able to sing around my surgically shortened tongue, I could sing very well and very loudly.
I decided to sing Patsy Cline's "Walking After Midnight" or, if they didn't have that, Dusty Springfield's "Son of a Preacher Man," mainly because I could sing both of those songs very well without much effort beyond that of the now-natural overcompensation for my small tongue.
Right after I'd decided that, though, a tall, scruffy blonde dyke walked into Wolly Wogs with a boombox and a microphone. Until this moment, I'd been the only woman at this gathering. Now I was the only woman of color. She climbed onto the stage, turned on the boombox, and started belting out "Hot Dog! (That Made Him Mad)"
Well, I have a guy; I like him fine
But he takes me for granted all the time...
...which, for some reason, incited a small riot among the young skins. At some point, she stopped singing along with her tape. I tried to sing for her, but the stress of the situation made my voice stick in my throat and I just couldn't do it.
The riot eventually abated and the skins went back to singing badly on stage. The blonde woman stood in the corner with her newly busted boombox and quietly solicited spare change from the patrons of Wolly Wogs.
I didn't feel like singing anymore.
Then I woke up.
So, you see, I had to transcribe it immediately.
There are a lot of disturbing elements contained within, though, so be mindful of that.
The Dream:
In the beginning, I was kidnapped, sort of, by a group of men. They were dragging me down a set of wooden stairs and onto a dirty operating table. At the forefront of this excursion were my parents and the rockabilly dick I dated ever-so-briefly. I knew that my parents were paying Rockabilly Dickhead to perform a medical procedure that would alter my demeanor in some way. Then, suddenly, I was floating above my own supine-yet-conscious body. As I watched from above, my parents quietly watched Rockabilly Dickhead cram a handful of shining steel implements into my newly exposed frontal lobe. He gloated incessantly about what his actions were doing to my person while he did them and how this would change me, ultimately, for the better. I would be quieter, not that mean, and almost never defiant. I'd be sweet.
"Now she'll be as sweet as she looks."
Then it was all over. I stood in front of a mirror and looked at myself. As part of the procedure, my tongue had been surgically shortened and I had a hard time speaking. It took a conscious effort to speak and speak well. I quickly found that, when I made that effort, I spoke with a clearer, deeper, voice that sounded a lot richer to me. I liked my new voice.
Later in the dream, I found myself in a dingy convenience store, somewhere in the UK. The convenience store was called "Wolly Wogs" and, at that particular moment, was hosting a Karaoke Night for queer youth. There was an old karaoke machine on a small, wooden stage in front of a few rows of folding chairs.
The attendees were all white, male, skinhead punks who were very poor singers. They didn't care about the fact that they couldn't sing well and found the whole thing incredibly funny in an "ironic" way. Singing at this particular event, however, was very important to me because I generally had such a difficult time speaking, much less singing. I knew that, when I was able to sing around my surgically shortened tongue, I could sing very well and very loudly.
I decided to sing Patsy Cline's "Walking After Midnight" or, if they didn't have that, Dusty Springfield's "Son of a Preacher Man," mainly because I could sing both of those songs very well without much effort beyond that of the now-natural overcompensation for my small tongue.
Right after I'd decided that, though, a tall, scruffy blonde dyke walked into Wolly Wogs with a boombox and a microphone. Until this moment, I'd been the only woman at this gathering. Now I was the only woman of color. She climbed onto the stage, turned on the boombox, and started belting out "Hot Dog! (That Made Him Mad)"
Well, I have a guy; I like him fine
But he takes me for granted all the time...
...which, for some reason, incited a small riot among the young skins. At some point, she stopped singing along with her tape. I tried to sing for her, but the stress of the situation made my voice stick in my throat and I just couldn't do it.
The riot eventually abated and the skins went back to singing badly on stage. The blonde woman stood in the corner with her newly busted boombox and quietly solicited spare change from the patrons of Wolly Wogs.
I didn't feel like singing anymore.
Then I woke up.