Stress Dream Journal

Analyze your nightmares with a stress dream journal!

Illustration by Marissa Ouyang

By: Kitty Cheung, Staff writer

At the recommendation of some mom blog I encountered during one journey down a 2 a.m. Internet rabbit hole, I’ve decided to keep a dream journal to figure out how to get the stench of my nightmares out of my bedsheets. I’ve collected some entries here from the past week and included possible symbols to see how my unconscious may be fucking me over.

 

Feb. 3, 2 a.m.

I remember swimming in a pool. The water was all nice and warm, then suddenly, it got way too hot too quickly. I realized the water was no longer water but hot coffee, and it was scalding my skin. The coffee started rising in waves, becoming a bitter, caffeinated tsunami that both drowned and burned me.

Possible Symbols

  • Water . . . swimming . . . wet . . . does this count as a wet dream?
  • I’ll mull it over tomorrow morning once I’ve had some coffee.

 

Feb. 7, 4:17 a.m.

I think I just had a lucid dream. I felt like there was someone hiding under my bed. When I finally got the courage to get up in my dream and look underneath, it was my term paper from last semester, but it was all ripped, crumpled, and angry. It started slicing me up with papercuts, but I was bleeding black ink instead of blood. The ink was soaking through the floor and I guess it must have been dripping underneath, because my landlady Gloria saw and told me I’d have to pay for damages.

Possible interpretations:

  • But I thought I got a good mark in that one W course.
  • Should I visit the Student Learning Commons about this?
  • Fuck. I just remembered rent’s due tomorrow. And that ink stain’s never coming out.

 

Feb. 11, 3:58 a.m.

My mom came to class to drop off my lunch, but it was weird because it was in the AQ. I was getting embarrassed and so I told her that it was fine and that I’d see her at home, but she kept insisting that I take the lunch, so I finally accepted it.

But when I opened up the bag, an actual raccoon sprang out and started clawing me in the face.

So I’m trying to pull it off, yelling and shrieking. My mom does some sort of high-pitched whistle and the raccoon just stops, gets all calm as it jumps to the ground. It sits back on its haunches, scratches its tummy, then lumbers over to hop on my mom’s shoulder and they leave together. Then I just spend the rest of lecture with my face all raw and scratched up, but no one, not the prof, not any of my classmates, says anything.

Possible Symbols

  • Is this bad karma for that half-sandwich I snuck to a raccoon last night? Raccoon obesity is a real problem, but it was so thiccc and floofy . . .
  • The last time Ma made me lunch was in high school. Maybe I’m reverting back to the days of being nurtured by her. I’ll call her tomorrow.
  • I bet this has to do with my stepdad Randy. He’s probably the reason I forgot my lunch in the first place. Asshole.

 

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