Last night I had a dream that I absolutely kicked the shit out of one of my high school classmates. A petite wiseguy with a tiny-penis complex, let's just say that in real life I didn't care for the guy.
It all started out with some half-joking sparring, which then escalated into wrestling with intermittent punching. Next, I have him in a chokehold and I start to squeeze. I hope, mildly, that I don't actually end up killing him. But I am at least hoping that he passes out so I can be on my way. Eventually he faints. I arrange his body next to a brick wall at the end of a dead-end street. And since I'm so considerate, I place his head delicately on some abandoned newspaper. I walk away with a spring in my step.
Then I start to sweat it. Surely he will awaken and tell people what happened?
Next, I'm in the hospital visiting him. Before arriving however, I construct a perfect defense. We've always liked to joke around, right (erm, not really, but whatevs)? Things just got out of hand. Besides, he's given me bruises too (actually he hadn't. But to protect myself, I searched my body for bruises I could blame on him and found one that I have in real life that I didn't get from fighting a high school nemesis). Besides, I could tell things were getting bad, so for his and my own protection I used my positional advantage to put him gently (ahem) under so no one else would get hurt.
So, I'm at the hospital. He looks terrible. Like he's just survived a hanging. He has big angry bruises all over his body and especially around his neck. On closer inspection his neck looks like one big rope burn. My forearms did that? I'm thinking: geez, Jen! Suddenly one of our 6th grade teachers shows up along with one of my grade-school girlfriends who once gave this guy the time of day (something I'm sure she'll feel embarrassed about evermore). I feed both of them my bullet-proof defense. They seem to be buying it.
Then I wake up.
So what do you think? Catharsis? Wishful thinking? Revenge of the Nerds? Bildungsroman? Feminist rage?
Analysis, please.
It all started out with some half-joking sparring, which then escalated into wrestling with intermittent punching. Next, I have him in a chokehold and I start to squeeze. I hope, mildly, that I don't actually end up killing him. But I am at least hoping that he passes out so I can be on my way. Eventually he faints. I arrange his body next to a brick wall at the end of a dead-end street. And since I'm so considerate, I place his head delicately on some abandoned newspaper. I walk away with a spring in my step.
Then I start to sweat it. Surely he will awaken and tell people what happened?
Next, I'm in the hospital visiting him. Before arriving however, I construct a perfect defense. We've always liked to joke around, right (erm, not really, but whatevs)? Things just got out of hand. Besides, he's given me bruises too (actually he hadn't. But to protect myself, I searched my body for bruises I could blame on him and found one that I have in real life that I didn't get from fighting a high school nemesis). Besides, I could tell things were getting bad, so for his and my own protection I used my positional advantage to put him gently (ahem) under so no one else would get hurt.
So, I'm at the hospital. He looks terrible. Like he's just survived a hanging. He has big angry bruises all over his body and especially around his neck. On closer inspection his neck looks like one big rope burn. My forearms did that? I'm thinking: geez, Jen! Suddenly one of our 6th grade teachers shows up along with one of my grade-school girlfriends who once gave this guy the time of day (something I'm sure she'll feel embarrassed about evermore). I feed both of them my bullet-proof defense. They seem to be buying it.
Then I wake up.
So what do you think? Catharsis? Wishful thinking? Revenge of the Nerds? Bildungsroman? Feminist rage?
Analysis, please.









