Why does my subconscious hate me?

Saturday night, I had a dream.

In the dream, I was auditioning for some kind of television show, or possibly the Percy Jackson and the Olympians movie. There were all kinds of houses where I was, like a summer camp, and some of them were in trees. I had to climb tall ladders to visit the Other Laura from high school, who had apparently married Ricky, also from high school. Even though in real life, that is not so.

After I visited their house (and climbed a very tall ladder to get to it), I went back down and met a group of people, one of whom was that lady who runs Vogue magazine, who everyone says is pretty evil. Although really good at her job.

Anyway, Vogue Lady was actually Aphrodite, or the goddess of looking pretty, whoever that is. I asked her how she could be Aphrodite, and she said, "You don't have to be pretty to know pretty."

And it was pretty clear she knew pretty wasn't me.

This was made even more clear when she volunteered to make me over, to show me how to be pretty, since that is an art mothers are supposed to teach their children, and mine was a child of the 60's and 70's, when they didn't believe in make-up or hair care products.

Or bras.

It is not without precedent, in my dreams, for celebrities (or well-known people of any type) to single me out as an example of what not to do. Why, a few months ago, I got ousted from American Idol by Simon Cowell, who told me my fatal flaw was to see the good in everyone and expect them to do the same with me. I told him that his was the opposite.

We parted in good humor.

The Vogue Lady took me to a room where I was made beautiful. I was forced to keep my eyes closed at all times during the process, and I was prevented from asking questions. After it all was done, I looked better than I had ever looked in my life.

"Wow!" I said. "I look better than I've ever looked in my life!"

The Vogue Lady nodded. She knew it was true.

After this was finished, I was taken away and left via a little door into a waiting room like a doctor's office, where I was going to apparently pay the bill. I was told that for $5000. I could have a lesson to learn how to be pretty like that all the time.

"I don't have $5000," I said.

The lady behind the counter, Vogue Lady, smirked at me as if she had known it all along. She rummaged around in a drawer and pulled out some pills, which she then handed to me.

These were Pretty Pills, and if I took them every day, they would help a little. I was told to come back if I had money, because they would be happy to teach me later. But we both knew I wouldn't be back. I would never be rich enough to be in the Pretty Group.

I know.

But it gets worse.

Last night, I dreamed that I was spending time with my friend Jennifer, who has found a guy she likes and wants to date. So that you all know, I will publicly "out" Jen if she decides to neglect me due to the existance of said boy (man, I guess), That is not allowed.

I smiled and said goodbye, and then I got in my car and drove home.

My mother had company over, people from my church who don't like me all that much. Also Grandma and Grandpa B.

She chose this time to confront me about some problem she percieved.

"What is this?" she thrust a brown bottle--those old medicine bottle things made of glass with the dropper on the lid--at me. "Smell this. I know what this is!"

"Mom, what are you talking about?" I asked nervously, looking at the large group of people who surrounded us, watching my trauma go down.

"I found this in your drawer, Laura. And I know what it is. I've smelled it on your breath."

It, apparently, was opium. Yes, I had opium in my nightstand drawer in this dream world.

"Oh, Mom," I said. "That was from my wisdom teeth surgery ages ago. I mustn't have thrown it out."

"This is a new bottle," Mom said. "How dare you drive on this stuff. I can't believe you!"

And as with all dreams that take the path of false accusation/parent I love deciding to hate me suddenly, I began to cry uncontrollably, and Mom kept mocking me for it.

So I got back in my car and drove away, sobbing, trying to call Jen. And in my dream world of neglect and low self-esteem, Jen happened to be out on a date when I had no where else to go.

Finally, a family found me and let me cry on their staircase for a while, because when I cry in a dream I always end up on some staircase somewhere, just like what happened in my real life as a little girl, when I found out my mother was in the hospital and they thought she was dying.

And then my alarm went off, I got up, and I went back to my real life.

What is up with those dreams? Seriously, what is the problem? How bad off must I be to have such dreams?

I don't even have any idea. Except to say, I'm glad I wasn't on benadryl this time, or it would all have been a lot worse.