The nihilists lost

A couple of posts ago I indicated that the Germans would be playing the Canadians on Wednesday. Why I thought this I am unsure. Germany and Canada played today, with Canada firmly denying the Germans their lebensraum.
Yes, I said lebensraum. The early forties are before my time, but they weren't so long ago and if there is one reason that I love Woody Allen (and there isn't just one reason that I love Woody Allen: there are many) it's that he brings up the Holocaust (and sometimes anti-Semitism: did you eat lunch/Jew eat lunch?) in almost every movie.
But the point of this blog is that I have no idea how I come up with things sometimes. I wonder if, on occasion, I dream something and then I believe it to be actually true.
Recently I had a dream in which I woke from the dream and thought "thank god that was just a dream" even though I was still, in fact, dreaming.
Yes. Even my dreams are complicated. How I am in a relationship is beyond me.
I remember Michael telling me about a dream he had recently and he was mesmerized because it was his apartment and yet it wasn't his apartment! And I was like "I just had a dream that a plane crash-landed onto our property at Lasqueti and two men jumped out of the plane with machine guns and started chasing my mom and I so that we had to face a bullet-riddled death or jump off a rocky cliff into the ocean: so we jumped". Seriously. I had that dream.
Anyways. I apologize for the misinformation regarding the German/Canadian hockey game.
And I should probably stop telling people I slept with Jimmy Smits, cause that didn't happen either (and it was the fat Jimmy Smits, naturally).
Please, please, please. I don't want to dream about people chasing me through various corridors tonight. I don't want to scramble, terrorized, trying to find random cubby holes to tuck myself into. I don't want to dream about Sam Eagle from the Muppet Show popping out of my toy box like I did when I was four (guess I hated Republicans even back then). No dreams about work. I will pass on the dreams where I call Jimmy Smits "big boy" in the throes of passion (like really, what did I eat before bed on that particular night?). I want to bypass the endless running dreams. Oh, the dream about skeletal death knocking at the door that I repeatedly opened just to snap his bony skull off over and over? I would seriously like to give that a rest tonight.
Please. Just let me dream of Dr. Sean McNamara.
For once.
Come on.