Notes from the Petting Zoo

Seriously. I think people really underestimate the pleasure to be had from a good dream.

It doesn’t have to be about anything in particular, either. It doesn’t have to be about sex or Pop-Tarts or feeling the sun on your face (although I’m not going to shoot down a dream about having sex on the beach with a box of strawberry frosted nearby, if you catch my drift). It can even be a nightmare, a pulse-pounding freakazoid hurtlement through your brain’s worst bit of gore-splattered craziness. It’s still a good dream.

You know it’s a good one when you wake up and you feel great. You feel more relaxed or calmer or happier or exhilarated. Basically, you feel more alive, as if all is right with the Universe.

So I can get behind the octopi and say “eight thumbs up for good dreams”.

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Is cutting grass like thousands and thousands of sloppy circumcisions being done by machine?

Or is it like an afternoon of mass beheadings, with the tiny high-pitched screams of miniscule leprechauns?

Or maybe it’s like a sort of medical procedure, where we go in there and hack away something that grew in such a way that we don’t think it’s pretty anymore.

Regardless, I’d rather not do it.

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