Food Induced Nightmares

Food: Two slices of birthday cake, some jelly babies, 50 life savers, accompanied by 6 peach Bellinis.

Nightmare: You get up drunkenly on a chair in front of everyone. The birthday party stops and your beautiful, if now slightly-estranged-because-you-only-see-her-on-weekends, daughter, little k, smiles up at you. But your ex-wife glares and shakes her head. Fuck her. You’re going to make the best toast ever, but to the tune of U Can’t Touch This all you say is: “O-o-o-o-o-o-o. O-o-o-o-o-o-o”. Everyone turns away. You’re wearing shiny parachute pants. 

You wake up having vomited on yourself.

***

Food: Reheated meatloaf.

Nightmare: There’s a wild party at your house. Yeah, this is more like it: the single life. “Hey everyone,” you say, but they are way younger than you, and they ignore you, and they are taking hits from the bong. These people like a big spliff and a nice fat cone. “Wait, but guys, please,” you say. “The water in the bong, please don’t spill—” But crap, someone spills bong water on the floor.

You wake up panicked and get on all fours to sniff the wool carpet.

***

Food: A drunkenly purchased hotdog from a stand outside the bar you just left, alone, at 2 am.

Nightmare: You’re standing by yourself at the office Christmas party. You are the most uninteresting person in existence. What the hell are you doing with your life? Everyone else is having a ball, they are climbing the walls, they are dancing on the ceiling. Oh. But not you. You just stand there because you missed the brief, you’re not like them, no one likes you.

You wake up spread-eagled and gripping the edges of the bed.

***

Food: Seventh day in a row of a thin vegetable broth.

Nightmare: In an empty subway station you’re confronted by three morbidly obese toughs in '80s streetwear. “Chamone!” they say. Their limbs make whip-crack sounds when they move. They’ve come to kill you. You try to run but you’re in a restrictive black leather suit studded with metal buckles, and you weigh about 400 lb. You get stuck in a turnstile. The toughs dance around you. “You’re fat, so fat,” they sing. “Chamone!” “What?” you say. “What! I don’t know what that means?” You begin to scream. 

You wake up drenched in sweat with a half-eaten ham-on-rye sandwich in your hand.

***

Food: Seven glasses of champagne on an empty stomach.

Nightmare: You’re dancing. Alone. Again. To Paul Lekakis’s Boom Boom. You’re dancing on a stage, and you’ve chosen to wear tight white jeans and an unbuttoned silk shirt. You have a frosted undercut and a microphone into which you sing heartily. Because maybe this song about boom boom will show everyone that you’re ready for a new relationship (and also a bit of boom boom).The fog on the dancefloor clears. The place is empty…

You wake up with your fist in your mouth.

***

Food: One shrimp cocktail, and 8 glasses of oak barrelled chardonnay.

Nightmare: It’s your wedding day! Oh, you remember this. In that long ago. Except this time you’re stuck in traffic even though you’re kinda already late. And ironically when you do arrive at the church, it fuckin’ ra-ee-ains. 

You wake up sobbing; it was exactly as you remember it. The best day of an old life, and you go searching for a knife but all you can find is like ten thousand spoons.

***

Food: Half a carton of salted caramel and white choc ice cream.

Nightmare: It is dark. Like a total eclipse. There is fuck all going on. There is no one. “Hello…hello, hello.” Every now and then you get lonely, but this is fucking ridiculous. You sob uncontrollably until a little voice tells you they want you. “What?” you say, “really?” Yes, says the voice, but then it breaks into a high-pitched version of Total Eclipse Of The Heart. Oh, that is it. Not that song. You start running like a motherfucker, the silent presence of death chasing behind you, its breath on your neck like a weighty loneliness that’s pulling you backwards. You can’t breathe.

You wake nonplussed. Same old shite. It’s 2 am. You don’t make a big deal about it. You go check on little k, it’s the one night of the week she stays with you. This is life, do your best, feed her well, let her have treats but not too many, tame her bad dreams, don’t fuck this up. You go and finish off the carton.