I had another bad dream a few nights ago that was not only horrible but also embarrassing. I’m not sure whether one can be held responsible for dream content. I would never choose such an idiotic and reprehensible dream.  I couldn’ t even tell my husband for days.

In the dream, I was in a bedroom with a fat woman who I was pretending to like for some reason. We were cuddling, and I didn’t mind it until it got sexual. I was very anxious and told her to stop. She asked why and I blurted out, “Because you’re a woman!”  The next thing I knew, she was on the other side of the room and she had turned into an angry clown, the kind we all fear and loathe. The clown took out it’s dick which was around three feet long and more like a baseball bat. He snarled, “Now you’ll be sorry.” I started to cry and woke up.

Well! I don’t have to tell you that I have no interest in being raped by a clown, or even a fat woman. A friend of mine gave me a far-fetched analysis involving rejection and guilt. Now I’m worried that the woman was my mother, and the clown was my father. But it might all be the consequence of looking at old circus photos for hours on end.

Maybe I’m at the point where I’m creeped out by sex. I love Tumblr and can’t seem to give it up, but the sheer quantity of tits and asses is overwhelming. Not to mention the unexpected animated GIF’s of men blowing each other and Japanese women bound up in rope. What’s the deal with this? Doesn’t anyone else feel kind of exhuasted by these images? There are only so many asses I need to see bent over a chair. Am I just too old to appreciate random asses?

And the tits, god, after a while it seems so tragic. Some poor woman in the 1950’s, displaying her gigantic tits like pies at a county fair, it’s just not a happy sight. Obviously, I can’t sympathize with the male point of view. Men seem to need tits to look at, 24/7,  irrespective of context.

As a married person, I think of sex as inseparable from intimacy. Without intimacy, it’s all clowns with baseball bats.

I wish I could end on that note but that would be dishonest.  I would be leaving out the more recent dream where a friend asked me to babysit his pony, who was a delightful cartoon character of some kind. Everything was great until the pony offered me its services. Of course I declined in horror, and wondered what the hell my friend had been up to.

Forgive me. It’s not my fault.

I dreamed there was a dead Me, laying beside me in bed. I was very distressed but I tried to take care of her, plumping her pillow or something. She was very pretty and young, sort of a goth Ophelia. Suddenly, I discovered that my ex-husband had taken her to a school campus and had left her there. I was horrified and furious with him. I flipped out and screamed at him, asking him if he realized that she was defenseless, that everyone would make fun of her etc etc. I screamed: “Isn’t there any dignity, even after death?!”

Then I woke up.

What does this mean? That part of me is dead? Because that is my daily reality.  Or was the dead me really Max? Or was it about Mitt Romney, who had just made his comment about the Libyan Embassy? Or is it because I’ve been immersed in the first four seasons of Breaking Bad?

Help.