I know that you’re busy and you have a lot of stuff to do, but your dreamcatcher is clogged and it’s freaking me out. You said this would never happen again, but your subconscious is flooding our apartment. 

How many times do I have to tell you this? When a dreamcatcher isn’t regularly cleaned, dream energy piles up and spills over into our world. Not so bad when it’s just one dream, but when you get a dream energy pileup, you get what happened this morning.

I had just sat down to eat some corn flakes and read the newspaper when a woman who looked like your mom but wasn’t your mom walked into the kitchen and wanted to know why I was in a bathrobe when I was supposed to be onstage for the final performance of an opera that your dad wrote. I was thrown for a minute, but then your mom who didn’t look like your mom turned into your girlfriend from college who left you to become a park ranger and I realized this wasn’t really happening. So I told your mom/non-mom/park ranger girlfriend, “This is an unlikely scenario.” 

That made her mad, and she stomped out the front door on her rollerskates. I returned to my newspaper, which was an old-timey newspaper with a picture on the front page of you with your teeth falling out, when suddenly an angry twelve-foot-tall Nikola Tesla burst through the ceiling in slow motion and crashed into the kitchen table. He roared and asked me why you claimed you had invented the alternating current. Then he did the Dougie dance.

Dude, get your dreams together. Seriously. Some people dream about pizza or daisies, or daisy-pizza. But Colosso-Tesla was twelve-feet tall and ripped. Yes, he was a good dancer, but he also yelled at me and nearly cooked my face with his electro-breath while he worked out with a pair of shake weights. At least I think they were shake weights… I hope they were shake weights. Regardless, I have never heard an inventor swear like that. My sugar glider is still scared he’ll come back, and you can’t un-traumatize a sugar glider. Also, we need a new table.

So I sat on the floor next to the table shards and poured myself a new bowl of cereal. That’s when I realized I wasn’t eating cornflakes; I was eating your dream about my cornflakes. I can’t say that you’re dreaming about my cornflakes exactly proves that you’re eating them, but that didn’t make it any less disturbing. I don’t want to know what the cornflakes represent, or if the milk or the spoon were part of the dream as well. Those things do not interest me, so if you’re considering it, don’t bother telling me, and never post it on your dream blog.

Now, you might be saying to yourself, What’s the big deal? Dreams taste like marshmallows, milk and gummy bears. No, they do not. They taste like mildew, mutton and Blistex. Ingesting your dream was very similar to the time I drank a tank full of Sea Monkeys on a dare: they both resulted in full-body tremors and headaches, except your dream was way more disorientating, thanks in large part to the talking rabbits. And the California Raisins. And the guy who played Schneider on One Day at a Time.

I would be concerned about what kinds of dreams I’ll now have after eating yours, except I happen to know that my dreamcatcher is spotless. As long as I’m in my room, I’m going to be OK. In fact, I had a dream about this just last night. And for the record: no, I didn’t dream about cleaning my dreamcatcher. I suppose that would be a valid theory, except, of course, I’m not really your roommate—I’m Robot Benjamin Franklin.

[Grabs kite and keys.]

Now, let’s go teach Colosso-Tesla a lesson.