윤

Just crawled out from under the comforter and had a dream I was watching an episode of Star Trek where Geordi was doing something or other and a person could be seen in the background who was clearly a dead character by then. The YouTube or whatever it was zoomed in on the partially obstructed view of a gray-garbed one-armed old man. The mystery behind it all left me with a chill, one with which I’d wake up: the subconscious reminding me to cover up.

Earlier I dreamt John was featured in a scene from the upcoming Transformers movie, and the clip was also online. He was being presented with a lit cake, in a train station or flight terminal, when the explosions start, and he (or a convincingly digitally-inserted stuntman, because it did look quite painful) leaps for cover onto a bench, then is flung onto another, rolling over another body, before a brother jumps forward with the sad commentary that, aw, man, and it was his birthday!

Netflixing the first season made me realize Community’s recent tear started further back than I thought, and the “Classic Wingers”/”Ab Mentions”/”Notches” scene from last night’s has me convinced there’s more to this Simpsons comparison, too. Sure, there’s no Homer, and real-life characters tend to be less likeable, but the ensemble is jelling in a way I’ve not seen since maybe Newhart. Now if they can keep it up for a few more seasons, I think everything’ll be alright.

My best friend in the whole world was a chihuahua and 岳父 is an otherwise good man, but that doesn’t mean I have to put cheese in my ラーメン, either. I’m not sure what’s worst: the sheer selfishness bringing a dog fit only for a single’s companion after already being rid of the smelly shih-tzu Iris also once thoughtlessly “rescued”, like father-like daughter; the imbecility of imagining the world’s noisiest breed suitable under the same roof with a sleeping infant; the acquiescence of his anger-ridden wife to this irresponsible act, not to mention her belief that she can somehow assume its care with a baby in her arms and food on the stove; or the entire family for fostering an environment where troublemakers steamroll the caretakers. 汪汪 (because the year-and-a-half-old will never learn a real name, anyway) has me reconsidering Al Bundy’s Shoe Lights as I tip-toe around its piss, cringing with each wail when its owner leaves it for a moment, and worrying that my son will take after this wretched spawn of a household without restraint.

Granted I didn’t give them much in the way of concrete material to work with (my bare memory of “infiltrating a foreign government posing as a double… but exposed in the end”, which didn’t even use up their 140-character limit), so it’s hardly what I’d call satisfying. Besides, does anyone really dream in metaphor?