It shouldn't bother me... no!

I had a really weird dream last night about Mike Patton. (When are dreams not weird?) He barges in on this group of people and shoots someone in the face. There was a bus or something somewhere. Everyone is freaking out. Then people start to dissipate but for some reason, I'm not allowed to get away because he thinks I'm going to turn him in, so he threatens to shoot me too, but I promise to keep my mouth shut and I guess I do a good job of coming across as honest because he lets me go. Then, all of a sudden (as happens in dreams) the mood completely changes and we are talking candidly in a doorway. I realise that he is about to take off and that I can't let him get away without telling him how great I think he is, so I gush for a while about how I admire his amazing vocal range and his creativity, yadda yadda. He's genuinely flattered, then he's gone. A few minutes later, my "cell phone" (?me?) rings and it's him, and he is asking me out on a date. I say that I have a boyfriend and we would be going just as friends, and he is fine with that. I hate myself for saying this in the apologetic voice of a weenie. We make a plan to meet in a cafe and I am determined to be on time because all of a sudden (again, as happens in dreams) we are now back in Homicide Mood and this is not just a friendly meeting any more but my LIFE here because, as it turns out, if I don't meet him, and on time, it means he'll realise that I was a liar all along and I will turn him in, in which case he will hunt me down and kill me first. So I'm taking all these trains and buses everywhere, only it's this dark, dense, mechanical city I'm in which is totally unfamiliar and the roads are like roller-coaster tracks and I become totally lost. Time is ticking. I ask a shopkeeper for directions to the cafe. The routes suggested are not that complicated, but each will take enough time to result in my being late. I start to panic, looking down the roller-coaster road trying to figure out which route to take... and then I wake up.

I hate talking about dreams because:
a) no one ever wants to hear it, not really, and more importantly;
b) something happens between my brain and my mouth where, in that process of having to articulate this pleasantly vague series of loosely-connected images and events, the essence of the experience of the dream is well and truly lost.

Maybe that's why a) is so.

Anyway, I think I've pretty much captured the spirit of the dream above (which is, if have cell phone then use it, and tell partner of plans to meet other men) so the key for me is not to speak dreams but to write them, because:
a) I can go back and tweak things for clarity, and;
b) you, Dear Reader, can stop reading whenever you like and I'll never know that I bored you because I can't see your eyes glaze!

Horray!