shaunpgannon @ gmail dot com
I lived in a crappy townhouse complex owned by the university for a couple years when I was in undergrad. There was only one bathroom on the second floor, and when you sat on the toilet, if someone else sat or stood on their toilet in the apartment next door, our whole toilet would raise/lower by a centimeter or two - enough that you could visibly see it happen, not just feel it. Not sure why BSU bolted toilets to each other through walls, unless that’s the kind of thing they’re into.
Today I found out you can microwave cling wrap. I always assumed it would shrivel up like a plastic bag. “What a time to be alive” - Jasper
When I was in undergrad, I sublet a house one summer in a part of town where the frat rejects holed up. I was standing on the porch one night watching two of my neighbors shoot roman candles at each other. The last fight ended when the guy standing on his porch fired a shot across the street and into the mouth of the other guy. Everyone started laughing, including myself, excluding the guy who ate the purple fireball, who instead yelled “AAAGH. IT TASTES LIKE BURNING.”
At the end of second grade, it began to rain midway through Field Day, so we had to hold the tug-of-war tournament inside, the location being the main chapel — not down the chapel lengthwise, which would make sense, but “short-wise” in the space between the pulpit and the first row of pews, because someone in charge didn’t want anyone hitting their heads on the armrests of the pews when they fell down. There were two doors going behind the stage that led to the baptismal bathtub area, and the teams stretched along the rope beyond those doors into small corridors. At some point during the tug-of-war match, my pinky finger got trapped between the rope and the doorframe, and enough skin was ground off the finger that I didn’t have any visible/noticeable fingerprints on that part for the entirety of the summer — probably because it got infected at some point. I blasphemed enough that day that had it not been the last day of the school year, I would have been in pretty big trouble, so thanks for not expelling me so my parents wouldn’t sue.
Last year, at an undisclosed sporting goods store, the cashier spent so much effort pushing the store’s stupid club card that not only did she not realize she passed over $100 dollars worth of shoes, but I didn’t realize it either until I was in the parking lot, discussing with my roommate how much we had spent, and I looked at the receipt. Eeeeeeheheheheh
So I had to take my car to the shop because the starter I had just
replaced malfunctioned once during a 13-hour road trip I left it there for about 5 days before they told me they couldn’t get it to malfunction again and to just pick it up. Today when I returned to the shop, which is in what looks like Chop Shop Central of College Park with 8 run-down mechanics’ garages and 2 half-operating, half-abandoned towing companies, I got my key and went to my truck, and the door was unlocked, and I was like “hrm” and my truck ABSOLUTELY REEKED OF WEED.
I forgot about my longest-running recurring nightmare! This seems to be more of an event within or conclusion to a dream, rather than the entirety or “event” of the dream, so that could explain it:
Sometimes, whenever I am walking/running somewhere in a dream, my legs begin to ache terribly, the pain radiating from my knees, and I slow down. If I’m being chased/running from something/etc., this is no longer the case, and my slow, painful legs take priority. I suspect these recurring nightmare stems from when I was forced to join the track & field team in 8th grade. Practices for the year started right at the beginning of my growth spurt (I have a lot of stretch marks on my knees, and I’m 6’4” now, so you can imagine that it was a pretty significant, speedy change in my body). When I jogged during practice, I would end up at east half a mile behind my teammates, as my knees very quickly felt like they were on fire, and I would drop in the streets and clutch my legs when I couldn’t run anymore. This resulted in one of the coaches breaking off from the herd ahead of me to turn around and yell at me while writhing in pain, rather than say “you should probably get that checked out.”
I’m not sure I can judge the frequency of this dream while in middle/high school, it was so commonplace. Maybe once every two, three weeks? Now it only happens once every 4-5 months.