I’m staring at my newly washed comforter with lust in my eyes. Freshly cleaned sheets are one of life’s many little pleasures that instantly lighten up your day. I can almost smell the freshness from here, which is exceedingly better than smelling the lack of freshness from here. I’m currently wearing some kind of throw-blanket as a sort of makeshift shawl and I feel like I’m only half a metre away from more warmth than my body has room for. Of course, nothing’s really stopping me from grabbing it now and adorning myself in the warm freshness, except for some misguided attempt at delayed pleasure. It’s gonna be straight up tantric up in here, except in anything pertaining to sexual release. Because I just washed these sheets, that would be counter-productive. I’m probably half an hour away from bed, which’ll mean that I’d have only been awake for just over 12 hours. I’m attempting to kick my sleeping schedule back into something approaching normalcy, but previous attempts have painted that goal as largely illusory. A guy can dream, can’t he? Well I’ll be trying to in 30 minutes anyway.
I feel like I haven’t had any significant dreams lately. I’ve had a habit of being drawn into bizarre subconscious landscapes for quite some time, but I haven’t had many that’ve blown my brain out through my forehead in a while. After having a night that culminated in inheriting a complete Operation board game (to the amazement of the wasted small town physio next to me on the bus, who’d just unwillingly moved to the big smoke), I dreamt that I was the head of a surgical team at a large scale hospital that serviced giants. We had to run the length of this colossal board removing water on the knee, a charlie horse and other assorted game pieces. That was pretty straightforward, not remotely abstract. I had one the other day where I got to hug Thomas’ beard. He was nowhere to be seen, but there was just this disembodied beard (complete with floating cheese cutter hat) and I gave it a big hug. It was fuzzy and soft, like I imagine it would be to hug the Cookie Muncher (the Cookie Time mascot, not to be confused with Cookie Monster of C is for Cookie fame) and I recall it smelling like home. I had a dream that I hung out with Doug (the Pug dog) who lives upstairs, while his owner paced back and forth around the room. As her room is directly above mine, I figure that was just the thumping of boots on the floor while I slept past a reasonable hour. It kind of came true this evening, when I met her flatmate, flatmate’s friend and Doug (the Pug) in our yard out back. He’s a pretty chilled pooch, likes being patted while staring back with his big round eyes. Always looks on the verge of tears, but never really reacts to anything. Doug (the Pug) seems like an excellent companion for watching shitty television, without getting judgemental about your poor taste in entertainment.
The next time I attempt to watch a whole episode of New Girl, I’ll bring him along. Okay, that’s unfair I guess. I’m not certain it’s a bad show, but that I’m so far outside the demographic (deficient in ovaries) to find any humour in it. Much like the common occurrence of male written shows having poorly written female characters, I feel like New Girl‘s male characters seem ripped straight out of chick-lit. There’s nothing wrong with that per se (as I’ve said, the inverse is obscenely common), but it doesn’t really work for me. Especially not when Girls manages to write such nuanced and interesting guys. The more that I write about it, the less charismatic this seems, as if I’ve found one of the few instances of sexual double standard and I’m calling it out in some form of faux offense taken. It’s not like that, I just wish everyone would write better characters regardless of gender. Just because it’s not the norm to have the males be poorly fleshed out, it doesn’t mean it should be happening to anyone. Maybe I just watched crappy episodes. Any Toronto New Girl fans willing to take me under their wing and prove to me exactly why I’m wrong? I’m willing to be proven as such. Doug (the Pug) can come too.
Until then I’ll be melting into the soft, warm, fresh recesses of my wondrous bed, hoping the subconscious narratives in my head have well fleshed out characters of both genders.
I have my doubts 