I like to think of myself as a patient person.

In social situations, for example, I’ll be the one who gets stuck in a 30-minute conversation with that rambling stranger at a house party, long after everyone else has found an excuse to dip. I’ll act engaged, out of politeness, even though I’m not interested in what they have to say in the slightest. I’ll give a half-smile, zone out, eyes glazed over and spout a ‘haha yeah’ after every second sentence. Maybe even chuck in the occasional ‘mood’ to spice things up. Just to make them feel comfortable.

What I’m trying to say is, I have a rather high threshold for faking my way through a boring conversation.

But there is one thing I will simply not entertain. One thing that will have me doing a 180 and running for the high hills.

I can’t stand it when someone feels the need to recount their dream to me in a painful, step-by-step sequence. Absolutely the fuck not. Even the thought of it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Truly frightening stuff. 

I’ve always found dream-sharing infuriating.

You know the type of conversation. A rapid-fire, stream-of-consciousness clusterfuck of events that make no rational sense.

“Oh my God. I had the craziest dream last night. I was flying atop the beak of an eagle, then did a tequila shot with Aunt Susan, who subsequently cut bangs for me, but the bangs turned out to be asymmetrical and suddenly I was on stage in front of sea of people, pointing and laughing at my asymmetrical bangs.”

Nails on a fucking chalk-board, I know.

Dream-sharing is annoying for many reasons. Firstly, there’s something so self-entitled about assuming someone wants to hear your dream. A dream that will inevitably make no sense.

“Woah,” the person listening will say at certain intervals, clearly not invested in what you’re saying. They just don’t care, and you know that they don’t care, but you’re recounting the dream anyway. Selfish. 

Secondly, dreams aren’t real. They aren’t fucking real. If I wanted to absorb a fictional story, I’d read a book or watch Netflix. At least then I’d be able to shut the book or exit Netflix at my own choosing.

I think my vehement hatred of dream-telling relates to the fact that I’ve placed it into the ‘small talk’ category, and I simply loathe small talk. I’d rather sit in silence.

There are some exceptions, though. If you had a sex dream about someone we both know – a mutual friend, perhaps – this gives some kind of indication that you, somewhere, deep down, want to bonk them in real life. And that is tea.

For similar reasons, I’d gladly listen to my crush telling me they had a dream about me. I’d be over the damn moon, in fact, because it’d mean that I manifested my fantasies and infiltrated their dreamscape. It simultaneously confirms that they think I’m a snacc and want a bite of this peach. Mission accomplished.

As for you, Rhonda? No one wants to hear about that time you dreamt about being the Spice Girls’ 6th member. It is simply not allowed. No one cares.

Literally.

No one.

It’s cancelled.

Wow, this feels extremely therapeutic to get off my chest.

This writing thing’s cathartic, hey? I should probably do it more often.