The title of this blog is not about the show. It is not some lost episode that never aired. I chose this title solely on the fact that Mr. Monk made an appearance in my dream the other night. That’s right, kids. It is time for another dream of mine. If you have read any of my other dreams then this dream will not leave you scratching your head in wonderment.
I had a dream last night. It’s not odd for me to have a dream. I just thought I would mention it since this post is going to be about another weird dream of mine. I don’t think there is ever a time when my dreams aren’t weird. You’re welcome to go back and read some of them. I promise you, each one is a little more eff’ed up than the next. While most of my dreams are lengthy, this one is not. It is a pretty short dream but that’s okay. It doesn’t change the fact that it will leave you scratching your head in disbelief. Let me set up the dream.
When I think of sports, I think of football and baseball. I don’t think of golf. I don’t watch golf. I don’t even play golf. The only golf I’ve ever played was on the Wii and the Kinect. That’s how your average lazy person plays. I guess since I am not a fan of it in real life, I am in my dream. I was at a golf course watching an event. It was between two people. A guy and a girl. It was Meryl Streep. She was a golfer but also playing one. So it was kind of like a movie but really didn’t make sense. The guy was a famous golfer. I never heard a name. It was sort of like my last dream when Stephen King could have been two other people. I have a hard time remembering people in real life, I don’t need this happening when I am sleeping.
Like I said. The guy in my dream is a golfer and from how I pictured him, he was pretty well-known. Now, I don’t know many golfers. I’ll hear a name here and there but other than that, golfers are not my thing. So these two are golfing. It seems pretty serious. While the golfing thing is serious, the guy in my dream (I swear he’s a real golfer.) was sort of the rebel of the sport. I mean he was acting all goofy. He made up his own rules. Kind of like,
Ooh la la la le la le… The game is going strong and he has to make his final shot. The ball is on the green. He has to make this shot. Remember how I said he’s like a rebel of golf? When he was taking his shot, he used a plastic handled, metal spoon. The spoon wasn’t overly large like those glasses you’d see at theme parks. It was a normal size spoon and he was going to kick some serious ass with it. He swings and, BAM! The ball rolls a little and falls right into its home. The crowd is going crazy. He’s going crazy. I’m going crazy! I scream and holler to express his win. I am walking past him when I extend my arm up for a high-five.
But you don’t give high-fives!
I know. It was weird. After I gave him the high-five I begin to think to myself about doing it. Did I really just high-five him? I don’t shake hands. I don’t touch people. I walk away. I am still confused and worried about giving him that high-five. Let’s not forget about Ms. Meryl Streep. She was there on the green next to him when he made that putt. She didn’t look happy when he sank the putt.
——————
For some reason, the golf game was gone and I was in a room with a box. This box was labeled something that I don’t remember but also had the initials, MS. I assume this box belonged to Meryl Streep. I open the box. A friend is standing next to me. Inside is a broken tape recorder. Still broken, we were able to play it and get a message that Meryl Streep is dead. We are sitting there, now the room is brighter and I can make it out. We are in a restaurant. An elderly couple is seated at the booth across from our table. We share a few glances just to be courteous.The box is brown, with packaging tape that is worn out, through however long this package has been around.
Our food arrives and we eat. The box is sitting there, the tape recorder on the table with the cassette resting near it-the torn and reeled out tape lying on the tabletop. I sip my coffee and switch my direction over to the old lady sitting across from me. The lady is fuming. She is staring at me and at the food on my plate. She must be hungry and when she looked at her fictitious watch.
Where is our food? She points to me. They got their food. She wants to get up and ask. I see that she does but she doesn’t. She sits there and sulks. I am sort of upset at this point. Not cause she is using me for an example of some poor service but cause she is waiting. The worker in me kicks in and I am getting bothered that she is waiting so long. I don’t know how long she’s been waiting for but I am sure it’s been a while. Like expected, their food arrives the moment before I was about to check for them. The waiter puts the food down in front of them and leaves. The food is cold. It’s ice-cold and she proves it to me by picking it up bare handed. She looks at me and motions with facial expressions,
What are you going to do to fix this for me?
I won’t do anything. I explain to her that, “I am on break.” Good enough reason to not go but not for her. Oh no. Not for this old lady. She is again ready to see the cook herself. She wants to chew her a new one and leave this establishment. I don’t let that happen. I get up and head back to the kitchen. I am asking the cook (who happens to be a friend) about what is going on with the old folk’s order. She wants to go smoke and tells me I need to cook. I said no but I cooked anyway. She vanished. I assumed she went to smoke. I stand at the grill and cook their food. I can’t recall everything they had but from what I remember, they ordered an omelette without sausage (and something else, I think onion), hashbrowns and toast. I cook the food by using my hands. I picked up the omelette and examined it. It looks fine. It smelled fine. It wasn’t quite yellow but that’s okay. They’ll eat it. The old lady was getting upset and was ready to leave but before she did, I swoop in and hand her the plate. Was she pleased?
No. Not at all.
/dream. Double ewe tea eff?
I quickly looked up what this all means. To pick out just a few items,
Cassette Tape: To see a cassette tape in your dream suggests that there is worth and truth in what you are saying. Alternatively, the dream means that you need to get out of the same rut. You are going around in a loop.
Omelette: To see or eat an omelet in your dream indicates a bright start to your day. The dream is telling you that you are headed in the right direction. Also consider the phrase “you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs”. Perhaps the dream is trying to tell you that there are certain sacrifices that you need to make in order to achieve your goal.
Golf: To dream that you are playing or watching golf signifies pleasant indulgences. It may also indicate that you are idling and wasting time. Alternatively, the dream symbolizes your individual accomplishments and your drive to succeed. To dream that you are on a golf course represents your desires for freedom. You want to escape the grind of your occupation. Alternatively, they dream may be a pun of how you are green or environmentally conscious.
via: Dreammoods.com
What do you think it’s trying to imply? Do I need to quit my job or should I not spend vacation being lazy. Dreams are fun to have and fun to see what people say they mean. Even if their interpretation is far fetched.
Had a strange dream just now. I just woke up and figured i better write it down before i forget it. Sorry if I skip around some. I’ts just after 6am and I literally just woke up and had to write this down. This is too good to not forget.
I had a board game of ‘The Human Centipede’ I wanted him to sign. We had a book. I don’t recall what book, or if it was ever mentioned. We (I say we cause there was four of us together) also had a large, red-sleeved dictionary too. We were planning on getting it all signed by horror master, Stephen King. We’re running around a park for no reason. I know it was a park cause of the trees and a statue. The four of us (There was four of us. I just don’t and can’t recall who the fourth was) were going crazy. I just remember us running around and screaming, “we’re gonna miss him!” We arrive at the building. He’s on the stage. He looks skinny. A little under weight. Possibly, cancer stricken with a virus eating away at him. While we are all excited to see him, it’s not him. I mean, it was Stephen King but he looked more like R.L. Stine. That is, if RL Stine was a buck-o-one and cancer stricken with a virus eating away at him. He is sitting there. A pen in his left hand. The sleeves on his black sweater are pushed up, revealing his arms. His arms are tiny and they are hairy. Not the whole arm. It was just centered on his wrist. From where I was sitting, his arms looked like they had tattoos but I can’t be positive. He has glasses that seem to be rolling off his nose. Never saw him push them up but as much as they would slide off his nose, they would magically go back to normal.
He doesn’t look very happy. You wouldn’t be either if you saw the kind of people in the crowd. It was full of no-faced people, the four of us, people who are there just to be there, and some stereo-typical redneck people. These rednecks were in three groups.
So, we are all is building. It reminded me of my days in grade school when we would all pile in the gym to see a presentation. The whole ambiance of the building really did make me feel like I was 11 again. We’re sitting on the ground. Other people are standing. We are sitting though. We could stand. Not sure why we are sitting. Most people are standing. Actually, I think everyone but us were standing. No matter. We are in the front. We have the best seats in the house. There is no reason Stephen King will miss us. He’ll wave us up and we will leave with autographed keepsakes. Me and my ‘human centipede’ board game, my brother with a book, and my little sister be the only person with a signed copy of a, red-sleeved, Merriam-Webster Dictionary. He waves us up. Even him waving us to the stage looks like a boring job. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to sign useless crap – like novels, magazines, or dictionaries. He sits in a chair. He is hidden behind an over-sized desk. Nothing on the desk but a pen holder. Standing next to him and the desk is a lady. She has no face, no name, and no reason being there except to be there.
My sister is waved up. We all were but we just sent her with everything. She is at the stage. Remember the groin-kicking fat kid? Well, he grabs me and starts another verse about kicking me in the balls. I am fed up at this point and I take my fist and punch him in the throat. I keep it there pushing harder and harder. I watch as his eyes begin to pop out. I say something witty to him. I know it was witty cause all good revenge and payback scenarios have the protagonist say one. The other yokels look at me but say nothing.
My sister is at stage. She hands him the dictionary. He screams about something and says he doesn’t do autographs. The crowd gasps and he says something else but couldn’t make it out. He sounded angry though. Next thing I know, I am up. I am back in my bed with no signed dictionary, there is no ‘human centipede’ board game, and my balls don’t hurt. The only thing going on was I had a few drinks before bed and nature was calling that very moment.
You know. Come to think of it, my description of him,
He looks skinny. A little under weight. Possibly, cancer stricken with a virus eating away at him. While we are all excited to see him, it’s not him. I mean, it was Stephen King but he looked more like R.L. Stine. That is, if RL Stine was a buck-o-one and cancer stricken with a virus eating away at him. He is sitting there. A pen in his left hand. The sleeves on his black sweater are pushed up, revealing his arms. His arms are tiny and they are hairy. Not the whole arm. It was just centered on his wrist. From where I was sitting, his arms looked like they had tattoos but I can’t be positive. He has glasses that seem to be rolling off his nose. Never saw him push them up but as much as they would slide off his nose, they would magically go back to normal.
sounds more like Steve Jobs. Now that I am awake, I have no clue who I met in my dream.