All the Dreams I’ve Ever Had While Sleeping in Jakarta

The one where the JG copy edit crew were going to the beach. We meet someplace and I realize that I hadn’t brought my swimsuit. I go back to my kost, and somehow, the cleaning lady is using my laptop.

The one where Patrick Swayze forces a blonde hostage out of a network of passageways in which I had just been moving with a girl with a bob haircut. In the dream, the blonde girl did something wrong. Viewed through a square of glass on the door, several goons clad in suits advance menacingly toward the blond girl. The dream ends when Patrick Swayze slowly walks down the stairs, hears a gunshot from outside and smiles.

The one where Parker Posey is a babysitter who goes around snapping the necks of wards while their parents are away. She babysits the son of the district attorney, who that night was ironically assigned to run after the serial killer. She moves to murder the lawyer’s boy, but stops when she sees the district attorney on TV. Parker Posey turns herself in, and asked why she did, she says: “Because his daddy was on TV.”

The one where I scream at a boy with a Chinese girl at a bar: “You  better be sure she’s worth it, because you’ll never touch me again!”

The one where I try to buy some really good pastries at a cottage bakery, but as I point to a piece of pie, the male attendant starts vomiting mozzarella cheese all over the baked goods.

The one where I’m in a room and suddenly get the urge to call my friend Nita, so I go outside to the balcony and notice a lady in a purple prom dress in the courtyard who looks at me menacingly and says, “Stop.” I run back to the room and try to desperately to call my friend’s name but somehow I couldn’t breathe and I could hear the woman’s footsteps coming closer.

The one where I am swimming a rundown pool of an equally rundown mansion and realize there’s cat poop in it.

The one where me, Dan and Anand are in bed together and there is this little Japanese girl whose head is stuck on a hook on the door. She is hanging from it, alive but woozy and bleeding into the floor. The rule is that we can’t leave the room until we killed her, so we endure several nights of trying to huddle under the blankets and block her face and her cries. But she kept crying and crying until one day, Anand takes gardening clips and cuts off her tongue.

The one where I am forced to sing a pony song that seemed to be the horse version of the Internazionale. Horses with empty saddles would trot past me, standing in front of a sidewalk chalkboard containing the lyrics, and would bite, kick or pee on me if I wasn’t singing. This compels me to jump off a bridge and into a river.


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