Other people's dreams are boring.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

For the most part.

Which is why I try not to get so excited about my own dreams that I feel compelled to share them with others. Sometimes my excitement does get the best of me, and I am forced to bore people.

Unless a dream is soup thick with symbolism, the revelation of which alerts your friends to just how deeply distrubed, perveted, depraved, oblivious you really are, your friends don't care. Dreaming about being a bounty hunter who falls in love with a dove *sounds* fantastic when you're sorting it all out in your own head, but tell it to someone else and watch how the eyes feel with a sort of glazed dread. They say, "Do go on," if they're polite, but they're usually thinking, "Oh Jesus, how much more?!"

When my roommate says, "I HAVE to tell you about this dream I had," I would think, "No, you HAVE to pee in the morning because your bladder is full. You feel like telling me about your dream because you secretly hate me." Then, one fine day, I told her to please stop.

A dream lasts, maybe, a total of seconds. The telling of one's dream seems to go on for hours.

But, friends, today is one of those days when I feel compelled. Because last night I dreamt that I was Walt Disney. The man himself, tailored in a rather lovely suit.

Started off as myself getting into a spot of trouble. The setting: Bennington College. I was fleeing the police in a sporty little vehicle and driving around like I was in Grand Theft Auto. Without notice, without any kind of distrubance, I was Walt Disney, and man...I could drive.

No one could catch me. There was only the rev of my engine and the spiraling road ahead, abutting a steep drop down. I promptly drove off the edge and into nothing, and as the car spun I - Walt Disney - safely spilled out into a soft patch of desert sand. Ascending the cliff side, I came upon a house, immediately identified as a refuge. I wanted to hide from my family and the world. I wanted the comforts of Disneyland but wanted to avoid Disneyland itself.

Much like Snow White, I sought shelter amongst those who lived in this cliffside cottage, an unkempt abode mostly occupied by people wearing - just my luck! - Disney character costumes.

I soon realized that I was dressed as Mickey Mouse.

And boy were they dumbstruck with awe when I took off my mask to reveal the face of Walt Disney himself. And the youngest of the girls, a pixie lass of about 18, told me I was very, very handsome.

I woke up before I could seduce her. Poor Walt.