This strange set of dreams began with me in a hospital. I don't recall my reasons for being there.
(Though I do have a hypothesis or two.)
John Lithgow was also there.
My mind draws a blank when it comes to whether he was part of the staff or a fellow patient, nor can I recall him saying or actually doing anything. He was just there.
Then matters got truly odd. I suddenly found myself in a supermarket. Donning a Superman-esque costume with an inverted colour scheme
(Similar to this stylish ensemble.)
I began flying around the supermarket. Orderlies from the hospital were there trying to capture me, but I flew too fast for them to catch me. Then I was suddenly back in the hospital, where I got into a philosophical argument with the Smallville Superman.
(If you can even call this self-loathing, whiny pretty boy with questionable taste in women Superman.)
I criticized him for turning Clark Kent into a simpering disguise and lectured him on what it meant to be Clark Kent.
(Long story short, my Superman/Clark Kent is essentially a composite of the three above, not the Silver Age Superdick Bill waxes philosophic over.)
I then found myself back home. I was no longer wearing the costume, but I could still fly. I can often fly in my dreams; it's my dream power (Why yes, I am a fan of Nightmare on Elm Street 3. Why do you ask?). I can't usually fly very high; it's often closer to levitation than true flight. But this time, I was flying higher than I had ever flown before. It was a mild, sunny day, and I could fly right up into the treetops. It was exhilarating.
(As free as the wind blows. As free as the grass grows.)
As I'd always wanted to know what the rooftop of my house looked like from above, I wanted to fly up there, but I still couldn't quite reach that far. Luckily for me, Laurie Metcalf was there to lend a hand.
(Y'know, my dreams would be quite the talk of the town if I had anything approximating a social life in the real world.)
With her boosting me up, I was able to fly high enough to purchase a grip on the roof's edge. As luck would have it, the entire roof turned out to be rotten. Unable to support my weight, that entire side of the roof gave way; I fell to the ground along with pieces of rotten, waterlogged siding.
The dream then went creepy.
I was suddenly in my old bedroom (Suffice to say, before moving into the basement this summer, I spent my worthless days festering in a crappy upstairs bedroom with a ceiling that leaked almost every time it rained/snowed.). As ominous ambient music played in the background, I watched as the ceiling slowly disintegrated, crumbling under the weight of the waterlogged insulation situated above.
(Oh, won't someone other than Tom Welling save me?)
Then I was transported to a video store.
(Saved by A-grade pablum and Z-grade schlock! I'll never criticize Hollywood ever again!)
There were two different BD sets of Jeffrey Combs horror movies available, on sale for literally a couple bucks each. Unfortunately, I didn't have even $2 on me, so I couldn't buy either one.
(I'll make it up to you, Mr. Combs. I swear it.)
With no seamless transition, I found myself then watching a Rod Stewart music video.
(If Stewart looked like Bowie and sounded like Jagger.)
Rod was with a blonde in a black convertible, driving around the outskirts of a suburb at night. As they drove about, night turned to day, the black convertible to a white minivan, and the blonde to a group of male bodyguards.
(I don't know about you, but I'd demand the blonde back.)
Suddenly I found myself transported into the video. The minivan pulled up beside me, the bodyguards hopped out, and one of them -- a cop with mud caked on his face
(Don't ask me. Just roll with it.)
-- pushed me to the ground and arrested me.
I was taken to an insane asylum, and who should happen to be one of the attending psychologists but Patrick Bateman himself!
(His bedside manner's great!)
Dr. Bateman was too busy treating other patients with chainsaws and blowtorches to see me right away.
"I'd refer you to Dr. Lector, but he's visiting relatives in Texas."
Luckily for all concerned, John Saxon was there to save the day.
Dressed in a pink tracksuit,
he confronted Bateman. Pulling two flare guns out from his waistband,
Saxon's ultimatum to Bateman basically went like this:
"We can do this the easy way or we can do this the fun way. Whichever way this goes down, your ass has a date with the backseat of my cruiser at 8:00 sharp!"
In spite of all his narcissistic bravado and homicidal talent, Bateman turned out to be a pansy at heart. He surrendered almost immediately to Saxon without resistance.
(You can't repel machismo of this magnitude!)