don’t call me cupcake

A couple months ago I started regularly dreaming about situations that involved me trying to lock someone or something out only to find it was already inside or that it came inside anyway. On one occasion I was locking the door and as I backed away from it, a man lunged forward from the corner. On another occasion, I fussed with the locks and thought I had managed to lock the door, but it wasn’t actually locked and the man found me hiding in the bathroom. (The latter was much more common.)

It was usually in this house that I dream of often, although there are a few different houses, and they’re only common component is a secret passageway and room that I think I am the only one who knows about. I often used the passageway and room to escape and hide. Hiding and escaping has seemed to replace the not-really-locked doors scenario. I’m still trying to escape, but now I have to leave the house. If I stay in my secret room, I risk being found. In fact, I’ve been forced out a few times and caught once because I waited too long to leave.

Of course, last night I dreamed that I was scavenging for weapons and make-up, as in a video game, and decided to hide in a bathroom instead of going out to fight my enemies since I couldn’t find any ammo. Just orange mascara, red nail polish, and blue nail polish. Suddenly aroused, I started surveying the room for something to use to rub on myself. (The backside of a mens’ shaver, anyone?) When two women found me, instead of shooting me they brought me outside into their van. As I sat between them with bags of flour, sugar, and blocks of butter on my lap, they groped me and tried to convince me that my husband wouldn’t care if I had sex with them.

Mostly what I’m left with is the odd recollection of melted butter between my thighs.

I’m not entirely confident in my abilities to understand my dreams, but they have demonstrated on multiple occasions – especially the reoccurring dreams – that they are somehow important. They tend to show me things that I am not addressing, for one reason or another.

When I was about 9 years-old I made a decision not to tell my parents something important because I didn’t want to deal with the unintended punishment. I wanted to play outside and run around and have time alone. I didn’t want to be afraid all the time, like they appeared to be.

Surely, you understand why this is funny now.

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Author: sp.ps

I make things.

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