Mortaine’s Blog

I’m on a “kick” lately. If it bugs you, let me know or delete the comment or something.

When a friend of mine blogs their dreams, I post my analysis of it– I’ve done this a couple of times, and don’t think I’ll stop soon because I’m enjoying it. My analysis is free and completely uninformed by anything except for:
1) what I know about you, the friend, from in-person or online interactions and reading the rest of your blog.
2) what things mean to me personally, or what I know them to mean to you.

Analysis is not in any way, shape, or form informed by psychoanalysis, religion, dream theory, magic, ESP, literary theory (well, much), or anything else other than I’m human, you’re human, and in some way, we know each other.

The reason I do this is because, frankly, I sometimes wish people would do it for me. Or that I could do it for myself. Or that analysing my own dreams actually brought me to some kind of resultion, but it never does.

One online friend (by friend I mean “acquaintance” as we hardly talk) has said my analysis of his dream was scarily accurate. Another said she was speechless.

Again, if such comments annoy you or seem intrusive, I invite you to shrug them off and say “Mortaine is crazy/stupid/interpreting the dream for herself and her own baggage, not mine.” That is as valid an interpretation as anything I can say, and you are welcome to it. If you ever want me to NOT comment on your dreams, just say so, and I won’t. By the very fact that I’m interpreting someone’s dream, I am already overanalysing it, so if you think the reason you dreamed about the fifty-foot Volkswagon bearing down on you is because of a spicy burrito and not because you have intimacy problems with auto mechanics, then your interpretation is almost certainly the correct one. In fact, that’s a good blanket statement about all such dream interpretations: the dreamer’s interpretation is always right.

Anyway, if such analyses bring information, enlightenment, or in any way helps you to help yourself, then I’m glad.

Oh, and if you want to interpret my dreams (as revenge, perhaps), just mosey over to my dream memories.

Thank you. That is all. And look, not even ranty! Go me!

I wish I had brought my camera with me to breakfast this morning.

I can rant for hours about the disgusting state of men’s fashion these days, but let me summarize it as this:

Guys: PLUMBER PANTS THAT SHOW YOUR ASS-CRACK ARE NOT SEXY OR COOL.

There. I said it. Pull your fucking pants up and put on a belt.

But if you cannot afford a belt, and you absolutely have to have your slouchy saggy-assed jeans hanging off of your non-existent hips, please be a little considerate of the people around you.

I am in a cafe. I am here eating my breakfast, the most important meal of the day, and drinking my caffeine, the most important chemical in existence.

YOU come in with your cutely-attired girlfriend (who looks as silently disgusted by your behavior as I am) and walk up to the counter. Like many people, you do not exactly know what to do with your off-hand, in this case your left. Most people would stick this hand into a pocket and be done with it.

But not you. You can’t reach your pocket, because it’s just below your left kneecap. So where do you put your hand?

That’s right. Inside your pants.

As if that weren’t revolting enough, you put it inside your underwear. How do I know this? BECAUSE YOU CAN’T BE BOTHERED TO PULL YOUR PANTS HIGH ENOUGH TO COVER YOUR NASTY BOXER SHORTS! So there I see the layers, casually presented before me (at eye level because I’m sitting and you are standing): your abdomen, your hand, the waistband of your underpants, and then the waistband of your jeans. Adding insult to injury, you have a bright green “charity” bracelet on your left wrist, calling the eye’s attention to the flash of bright shiny color, so that you can actually draw attention to your hand’s noxious location.

I am, utterly and completely, revolted. All that is going through my head right now is that you have your hand touching your pubic hairs while I’m eating less than five feet away. I have supreme control over gag reflex for someone without bulemia (and an even more supreme appetite) or I would barf all over your nasty-handed self.

I come to the conclusion that you are “holding it on” so it won’t fall off. Certainly, the death-glares I’m giving you and my fervent hope that you do not pass on any of your genetic code to the next generation would, if it could, make your “stuff” shrivel up and fall off.

By the end of my breakfast, you appear to have overheard my husband and me discussing your “position” and how disgusting it is to try to eat near it (my husband’s gag reflex is not as controlled as mine; he didn’t finish his muffin). You have taken your hand out of your pants and put it more decorously into your pocket (see? you CAN reach it if you pull your pants up to your waist!) However, the damage is done– I know there’s no public bathroom here, so all I can hope is that you keep that nasty, self-loving hand in your pocket until you get home, because I don’t want you touching ANYTHING that I might come in contact with. Not the counter here, not the coffee bar, not even the fucking doorhandle.

In fact, while we’re at it, would you mind just getting off of my planet? You are too disgusting to be here.

[Off-topic video.]

Click here for the movie! (MPEG-4 format, 7 MB)

This is a video I took at the WAMM rally to legalize medical marijuana in Santa Cruz on July 16, 2005. Santa Cruz has gone head-to-head with the federal government over our right to alleviate suffering with a natural and mostly harmless (and definitely over-penalized) medicine.

Of course, there are all these very normal people at the rally… and then you walk out onto sidewalk and the stoner kids are standing around “Oh, yeah, man… pot…. got some?”

*Sigh*

August 2, 2005: Updated. Replaced music with cc-legal music. Just in case.