Dreaming of Dead Royalty

I must preface this story with the cold, hard truth. I’ve never smoked, swallowed, or injected any type of drug.

After all, their variety confuses me.

However, my brain still seems to concoct the craziest dreams without any external assistance. And naturally I always believe that they’re my real life until I’ve woken up with my sheets all tangled and a cramp in my left calf.

None of that new-fangled lucid dreaming for me! That’s only for the cool kids!

It all started when my friend Amanda and I were touring Europe and decided to drop in on the Queen of England. She invited us in for a nice, strong cuppa, and we simply couldn’t refuse. Obviously. Lovely lady, the Queen. Just lovely.

When we left the palace, our private, bright yellow school bus was ready to pick us up right outside the gates. Chatting about how exciting it was to have finally become besties with the queen, we happily boarded our bus.

This was when we noticed that the late Princess Diana was our bus driver.

Obvies we’re VIPs.

Driving through London’s streets (which had quickly turned to bumpy country roads five blocks away from the palace), we didn’t think anything was amiss. Princess Diana was maneuvering a bit fast for my taste along the winding roads, but I just chalked it up to her being a stellar racecar driver.

I only realized that something was off when rainbow goop started spraying from the front of the bus, splashing the seats and windows.

Hands still tightly gripping the steering wheel, Princess Diana stood abruptly.

“Girls!” she yelled. “Close the blinds!”

Amanda and I glanced at each other.

“NOW!” she shrieked.

Now, everybody knows you can’t just disobey royalty. So while Princess Diana continued to drive recklessly, Amanda and I tore through the bus, running down the aisle and hopping over seats in order to pull down the window shades, all while being doused in slimy rainbows that were still shooting from the front of the bus.

Once we managed to sufficiently darken the bus, the rainbows had ceased fire. Princess Diana pulled the bus over to the side of the road and beckoned us towards her.

Gasp! The source of the rainbows! It was a folded up crossword puzzle! Of course! Wait… what?

Oh, Christ.

Princess Diana folded her son back up into his crossword and looked deep, deeeeeeep into my eyes. “The Queen is after us. She wants to murder my son and I, and she’s sent her police to get the job done for her. If anything, anything, happens to me… I’m entrusting Adam to you to keep him safe.”

And again, since you can’t just refuse royalty when they ask you to protect their hunted, illegitimate children, Amanda and I promised to help if the need arose. We settled back down and calmly wiped the rainbow infant vomit off our hair and faces. Princess Diana began to drive again.

Despite this news about the scandals of the British royal family, things were still going well. I was ignoring the sound of the sirens closing in behind us. I was getting excited for our next tourist attraction, whatever that might be, and frankly, I was rather enjoying the views of the beautifully green English countryside until Princess Diana thought it would be a brilliant idea to ruin everything and crash the bus into the siderail.

To make a long story short, she died.

Yeah. Not expecting that.

So let’s take a moment and analyze our situation: Our bus had been stopped by the metal siderail. Princess Diana was dead in the driver’s seat, smoke was billowing out of the hood of the bus, and Adam’s folded crossword was flat on the floor, beginning to burp up rainbow bubbles. And you can’t forget the fact that Scotland Yard was on our tail.

Amanda and I knew what we had to do.

We sprinted towards the front of the bus, and I snatched up Adam as we bolted out the door.

The policemen didn’t miss a beat, and followed us off the road into an English meadow. Swinging their bats over their heads, they yelled out for us to stop, but we pressed onwards, set on protecting baby Adam.

The Benny Hill theme song started to play as we were reaching the edge of a line of trees.

AND… I woke up.

Yeah, that happened. In my mind.

(And for those of you who aren’t humming the Benny Hill song in your head right now, you should feel ashamed as you click on this. Now listen to it until it’s stuck in your head. You’re welcome.)

Daddy, Say Beep-Boop

Strangers are fascinating creatures. I mean, seriously— people-watching is totally a legitimate hobby. I’m drawn to observing my fellow humans around me as I’m out in public. It’s not creepy, okay? It’s fun. It’s harmless.

It only gets weird when you interact with them. But in general, that is when they are the most entertaining. And terrifying.

Matty and I had been wandering around the park by his house for a while, and because we’re such cool cats, we went to the playground for some good old-fashioned fun. No worries that we were teenagers, therefore way too old to be playing in the park, and could possibly be seen as hooligans, pedophiles, or both. No worries, man. Honestly, it should be a rule that everybody needs to enjoy a lovely afternoon on a playground every once in a while. Even hooligans and pedophiles need to invest some time in good, wholesome fun.

First, we hit up the swing sets to get warmed up. We knew what we were there for though. The swings were only the appetizer. We were ready to relive some childhood memories on the merry-go-round. Check that shit.

The merry-go-round had always been a popular item with us when we were younger; it was the most sought-out playground equipment amongst all us little ones growing up. We could easily remember clutching onto those bars for dear life, our bodies sliding off precariously (thanks to our good friend centrifugal force), as some other kid whipped us around with all his might.

After all, who doesn’t like getting spun around so fast until you want to puke your guts out? And since we were older, we had the strength to really get some speed. To really puke up some guts.

There were no words to describe our excitement at the prospect. 

As we approached the merry-go-round, we saw that it was occupied by a bunch of snot-nosed, sniveling, screeching children. Disgusting.

But instead of walking up to the group of kids and yelling at them to get the hell off our damn merry-go-round like we so desperately wanted to, we decided to take the more mature route and wait it out. Like adults. Since adults wait patiently for their turn on the merry-go-round.

So in order to bide our time, we meandered over to the mini-merry-go-round. It had its own set of perks. Since we were no longer tiny children with tiny child-size asses, it was difficult to fit on, which made the whole falling off feeling that much more intense. The visual appeal was also rather striking. A metal masterpiece, if I do say so myself. It looked like a clown and a bug and a spaceship and a demon all rolled into one stellar piece of playground equipment.

So friendly. So horrifying. So perfect.

Matty and I clambered up onto the spinning, demon clown-bug and started to get some high-quality momentum. I clung on as best I could in order to keep the majority of my ass on the metal bench as Matty kicked us along. Nothing could match this feeling; I was high off life.

And then I saw her.

A small, four-year old girl was rushing towards us at a dead sprint. I kid you not, a dead sprint. We slammed on the brakes, digging our heels into the woodchips at our feet so the metal arms of the demon-bug wouldn’t knock this tiny girl unconscious. And somehow, we skidded to a stop in time before she collided with us.

The whole point was to avoid the children, but fine, cute little girl, I guess we’ll spin you around with us. She instantly climbed on, and we started pushing again slowly. But after one turn around, she yelled at us, “Wait! My little sister wants to get on!”

The four-year-old motioned to the baby waddling along, making her way to the demon-bug. We watched, transfixed, while the girl helped her baby sister up.

We were not prepared to deal with extra-tiny nuggets. There was no way she’d be able to hold on. This was not cool.

We needed to leave.

Now.

But just as we were about to hop off and save our adrenaline rush for later, the girl spoke up again. “No! Don’t leave! My dad will push us!”

And lo and behold, there he was. Like a demon in the night, he had snuck up behind us from out of the shadows, and he started pushing us before we had a chance to get off.

We were trapped.

So there we were, two teenagers being spun around on the demon-bug by a grown-ass man. How were we going to get out of this one? Tell the dad to stop? No, then the little girl would be upset… Stop the damn thing? But the baby would totally fall off then… Just jump off and risk injury? No, no, no, no, NO! We couldn’t do anything except wait it out. We were stuck in this weird situation with these strangers, yet we didn’t think it could get any weirder until the girl piped up yet again.

“Daddy, say beep-boop.”

Wait… what?

Daddy, say beep-boop.

The father seemed unfazed, ignored his daughter, and continued spinning all four of us around. Matty’s eyes caught mine and I knew we were thinking the exact same thing: what the flying fuck is happening right now?

But she didn’t stop, and her high-pitched voice escalated in volume until she was screaming.

“Daddy, say beep-boop. Beep-boop! Say beep-boop, Daddy! Say it! Daddy! Say beep-boop! DADDY! DADDY! SAY BEEP-BOOP, DADDY! SAY BEEP-BOOP! SAY IT! BEEP-BOOP! BEEP-BOOP!”

Every few seconds she’d scream again, insisting that her father say beep-boop, and I was beginning to wonder why this little girl wouldn’t let it go and leave her poor father in peace when it happened.

I thought the little girl was going to piss herself she cracked up so hard.

“Again!” she yelled. And he obliged. The baby gurgled her approval, the girl kept screaming for her dad to continue saying “beep-boop”, and the dad continued stoically saying “beep-boop”.

Matty and I stared at each other from opposite sides of the merry-go-round, desperately trying to control our laughter at the situation we had found ourselves in. We whipped out our best (meaning not-so-good) poker faces, and when the dad wasn’t able to see our faces, we’d express our emotions appropriately.

Beep-boop.

Beep-boop.

BEEP-BOOP.

When he finally stopped spinning us around, no words were exchanged. Matty and I jumped off instantly and ran from the playground back to his house where we burst out laughing.

It was hilarious and horrifying, and those two words still haunt me to this day.

And you wonder why strangers both fascinate me and terrify me…

My Creepiness Can't Even Be Contained By Waking Hours

I’m sure you all have encountered someone who, while sleeping, does something out of the ordinary. There are sleep-talkers and sleep-walkers. There are blanket hogs. There are moaners and groaners and cuddlers and boxers and snorers and people who are a mix of all these things. People are messed up sleepers. And then there’s me.

Let’s be real here—I don’t think that there’s a single word that can properly describe the creature that is moi in a deep slumber.

I can only say this: I will scare the absolute shit out of you, all while completely and utterly asleep, without any recollection whatsoever on my end the following morning. My victim told this tale to me the next day; I have zero memory of this incident ever occurring.

Let this be a warning to you. NEVER sleep in a bed with me.

The week of my twenty-first birthday, my best friend and I decided that it would be a good idea for her to stay at my place for the week. So for a few days, Bestie had been sleeping in my queen-sized bed with me. We had never imagined that it would be a cause for concern. …We were gravely wrong.

After a summer night of celebrating my new age, we got our pajamas on, brushed our teeth, and crawled into bed. I had to wake up early for work the following morning, so I passed the hell out instantly. Bestie didn’t have to wake up quite so early, so she stayed up reading The Hunger Games by the light of the bedside lamp.

Into the wee small hours of the morning she read, getting completely engrossed in the story, unwilling to put it down.

She be readin’ like this:

After a while, Bestie really needed to switch to her other side. She had been propped up on her left side, facing away from me, for almost four hours, and her body was itchin’ to change positions.

Ever concerned with the levels of creepiness she exudes, Bestie pondered whether it would be socially acceptable in the bestie code for her to turn, put the book between us, and face me as she finished her reading. After all, I was slumbering peacefully with my face towards her. If I were to wake up, she would have been all up in my business. And that’s just straight up rude.

It was a legitimate concern.

She’s been asleep for hours, Bestie reasoned to herself. It’s totally fine.

So she adjusted like this:

For a few sweet minutes, she was able to read in peace. The book was reaching its climax—the action was at its peak, characters were DYING, and Bestie was on edge. It was completely silent, tension filled the air, and darkness burrowed into every corner of the room.

The only sound she could hear was my soft, even breathing.

And then—BAM. With the lightning quick reflexes of a cheetah chasing down a fresh, baby gazelle, I inhaled, propped myself up on my elbow, and stared. Her. Down.

But even that obviously wasn’t enough for me. My creepiness cannot even be contained in a dead sleep; and once it was out, it was going to go full force.

Seconds passed.

“You… you scared the shit out of me!” Bestie managed to spit out. She thought I was wide awake. My eyes were fully open, and I was staring right at her, so, yes, you’d think that I was awake. And you’d be wrong. Dead wrong.

My response to her?

You can’t say I never warned you.

A Shovel Can Be Quite the Weapon in the Hands of a Small Child

Generally speaking, I am a non-violent person.

This may be because I have spaghetti noodles for arms and can’t hit a sack of dead kittens without hurting myself.

Regardless, I accepted my weakness a long time ago. (For those who are wondering, my fighting strategy, in case I were ever attacked in a dark, damp alley by a terrifyingly buff man lusting after my blood, involves running. Lots and lots of running.)

So it may come as a shock to you that I have had a few violent experiences throughout my life. I try to think of them as sloppy, excessively painful accidents to make me feel better about my clumsy self… even though sometimes I wonder if, deep down, I’m just a sadistic, evil little psycho.

Hey, it’s not like I TRY to hurt people. Well, except for that one time...

But we’ll ignore that. Violence just happens. NBD. But sometimes it’s just a bit bloodier than others.

Take, for example, the morning that four-year-old me decided that I wanted a peach tree in my yard. I didn’t care that I lived in Illinois, land of corn and soybeans and Abraham Lincoln. I wanted some damn peaches whenever I felt like it, and NOTHING was going to get in my way. 

I refused to let her mockery affect my ambition. So I promptly ignored her as I slurped my peach down to its pit and plotted how exactly I was going to accomplish this.

My first step was obvious: I needed manpower. And since Mom had already made a joke of my life dream, I knew she was useless to me.

I had to seek out my brother.

Brother and I had an interesting relationship growing up. It mainly consisted of me being so annoying and obnoxious you would prefer ripping out your fingernails over getting anywhere close to me, and Brother proceeding to ruthlessly beat me up for being so annoying and obnoxious. It was a rare day when we got along, but I was going to make sure that today was one of those days.

To be honest, it really was very easy to get Brother to cooperate with me. It was all about bargaining my life away.

I believe I was up to four lifetimes of devoted and miserable servitude at this point, but little did he know, I only was capable of ONE lifetime. I had such a brilliant strategy to rope him into doing my dirty work, and it never failed. This time was no exception; my manpower was attained, and step one was complete.

With the peach pit in my hand, Brother and I wandered into the garage and snagged the first tools we could find among the many sharp, dangerous things that we shouldn’t have been climbing over. I grabbed a gardening trowel, chosen for its relative size to me, figuring I would have an easy time with it. Brother found the durable shovel, the one with the square-point metal blade, chosen for its supreme digging capabilities.

We meant business.

We just didn’t take into account that, in order to dig a good hole— no matter how badass we felt with our slammin’, ground-murdering tools— we needed to actually have some strength behind them. Unfortunately, we did not possess said strength, but that wasn’t going to stop us from trying.

Brother and I mercilessly attacked the grass.

After multiple attempts to break through the grass, I realized that we weren't getting anywhere like this. We’d done almost zero damage, and I was already starting to get tired. My trowel was useless to me; I needed a strategy change. Brother couldn’t handle the big shovel. That was obvious. If we were going to accomplish anything, I needed it.

"Can I have the big shovel now?" I asked.

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?" I begged.

"No!"

"I’ll be your slave forever?"

"…Fine."

Victory was sweet.

Brother handed me the square shovel, took the trowel for himself, got on his hands and knees and got down to business.

With that shovel in my hands, I knew that I was finally gonna get some damage done. I was powerful with that shovel. I was a force to be reckoned with. Unstoppable. I could taste my infinite supply of peaches with that shovel in hand.

I knew that all I needed was one good dig to break the ground, and then I could really get going. So I closed my eyes tightly, lifted that shovel in the air, as high as my tiny arms could hold it, and slammed it down with all my mighty might.

I felt the shovel make contact; a rush of joy surged through me. YES! YES! YES! PEACHES! YES! And I looked down to see the damage I had made.

From shoulder to hand, his arm was oozing out blood.

…Oops.

Naturally, we acted like this was happening:

Brother screamed and sprinted inside, and I ran behind to watch Mom bandage him up.

For years he blamed me, and I insisted it was an accident, nobody being certain as to how angelically innocent or maliciously violent I really was. The only thing that we could be certain of is that I was willing to do anything for an infinite supply of those damn peaches.

Mmmmm… peaches.