Dreams...

According to the 1990's cycloptic pop singer Gabrielle can come true. What the little piratey minx didn't mention was that nine times out of ten they are either: impossible, improbable or so loosely based on reality that it's probably just your brain keeping itself entertained while the rest of the selfish body gets to lie there and do nothing. Another thing old Gabbers forgot to mention was that dreams are a pain the harris to talk about without sounding like a fucking idiot.

I'm probably breaking one of the ten men commandments written somewhere highly witty and so highly macho that only giant men with their strength gained from the gym, where they go to enhance their alpha muscles (as opposed to look at others') so they can lift such intellectual weight off a shelf, a guide to life so overwhelmed by insight that each word has been carefully wanked over for millennia, for each one is worth a thousand mortal breaths: except the title. (Or Im Agazine is waiting in a bin for its revenge.) My real concern was that I've been away from this page for about four days and I felt like writing something this morning.

Ah yes, the dream thing. If I'm going to bear my soul to a dozen people on the internet, I might as well do it properly. Normally my dreams are so inanely boring that for the first few minutes of my day I'm glad to have woken to a world that is not limited to my rather limited imagination. The joy usually wears off when I reach the level of consciousness that reminds me that my life is limited to my imagination as well as my ability to do anything with it. But as the film flickered in my head in the early hours of this morning, I got the idea that for once in my life my head wasn't just showing me pictures that made absolutely no sense. Unlike most of my dreams, this morning there was dialogue. Hopefully this is going to do to my head what talkies did for Hollywood.

There was also a strange amount of product placement.

Have you ever seen the episode of Futurama where people's sleep is invaded by advertising campaigns? I think it's starting to happen. And you know how websites track your previously visited sites and personal data to tailor fit the ads that appear in your browser? (E.g. 20 something male, uses social networking, email, reads the news and watches a bit of porn: TV LICENSING ad.) My brain's adverts had that. I remember looking at a slogan on a billboard which had a misplaced question mark and thinking: why is there a question mark in that brand X advert. (In fact it was one of those double brand ads, like use Friendface on your iWank.) And instinctively, in my sleep, my obsessive nature made me shout at the advertising hoardings like a madman.

Then another advert appeared that made me laugh, because it really seems to have worked in a backward ass kind of way. So I'm walking through the park and then out of nowhere, on the side of a building or floating through the sky like in Blade Runner, another billboard appears: New York City, a place to blog. Sheesh kebab, did that make me laugh. If all NYC has got going for it is ten million morons like my morose self tapping inane thoughts into iBooks at brand coffee houses, America is more fucked than we thought. Hell, we might as well right off the idea of the Western hemisphere already.

But the important thing is that these bizarre images in my stupid head seem to have done the trick. I've woken up an hour earlier than I planned to. Despite not being in the Blogger's City, I've spent the first half an hour of my day writing about the last half an hour of my last day. Things are starting to make sense to me. I've been reading Catcher In The Rye again, which explains the New York setting of this morning's adventure through my skull. I've already finished school so I can't drop out like old Caulfield did. But I can go home and explain to my folks: Mum, Dad, I want to be a famous blogger.