I Dream of Aliens

A dream in the form of a really lame alien movie played in my unconscious mind last night.

Along a dark, straight highway somewhere in the middle of what I would call Nowhere, I drove, squinting past the heavy raindrops that were violently pelting my windshield.

“How’s it going?” my dreamfriend—a dark haired, slightly tubby woman—asked from the passenger seat from my ’99 Buick Century.

“Fine,” I said, “If only this darn rain would stop.” It really wasn’t too bad; I was entertaining myself with thinking about the fantastic presentation I made in my class, in which I took everyone to my attic, which I had filled with billions of Skittles—enough Skittles for people to swim in, and they did. It somehow had an environmental message, too.

My dreamfriend was not so entertained during this quiet trip: “We’re never going to make it to—hey! What’s that?”

Just then a spaceship, a spaceship, whirrrred down in front of us.  I stopped the car. Dreamfriend and I, as any brainless sci-fi actors would, got out of the car to go examine what was going on.

The spaceship had landed fifty yards or so ahead and, let down a steel door and spilled smoke onto the ground. Aliens that resembled googly-eyed, smiling cartoon dinosaurs with AT-ST Walker from Star Wars pants ran down, giggling.

Clearly, they were terrifying.

The aliens then began to run toward us, waving small credit card-sized pieces of paper with something on them that I couldn’t recognize.

“Oh no!” my dreamfriend shouted, “Those cards have our kryptonite on them!”

(“Kryptonite? Really?” I said, “Like that’s original.”)

[I am mindful of the fact that this is probably the worst and lamest picture I've EVER drawn on this blog. I apologize. I really don't know what's worse: the smiling, stupid dinosaur, the spaceship shaped like a hamburger, or the fact that I've decided to minor in art.]

My dreamfriend was right, however. Somehow those googly-eyed aliens overtook her and dragged her into the spaceship.  I saved myself by running back to the car just in time to drive safely away. (I obviously didn’t care much for my dreamfriend.)

I drove frantically to my dreamhouse—not like the house of my dreams, but the house in my dream—and walked in to tell everyone there, including Christie, who was just hanging out, that aliens were probably coming to kill me.

To protect myself, my roommate gave me a small box with a tiny, dull knife, a fingernail clipper, and a magnifying glass.  Real great, I thought, The aliens are going to come and get me, and all I’ll be able to do is clip their nails before they dig them into my flesh.

Just then I took a look out of the window and saw that the alien ship was coming! What made things worse was that there was a little boy, in the pouring rain, sitting on a Fischer-Price picnic table.  I couldn’t leave a toddler out in that rain, so I went out and asked him where his parents were, and he said, “They wanted me out here,” in the kind of heart-breaking, pissed-off way that made me take him inside to take care of him.  Just the damn sweetest kid, he was.

The spaceship was fast approaching.  We needed to find someplace to hide. I tried the bathroom, but the closet in there wouldn’t fit both of us. Then I remembered…

The attic filled with Skittles!

Without a second to lose, I pushed the little kid up the ladder and into the room, where I followed him.  We were safe now, and even if we had to stay up there forever, at least we had billions of skittles to eat.

[Taste the f***ing rainbow.]

“Don’t worry,” I told the little guy, “We’re safe now.”

He then smiled at me, took out a walkie-talkie, and spoke in a strange language. The kid had turned on me. He was an alien, or at least an alien spy, and they all knew where to find me. I was so pissed.

And then I woke up.