Entry: Viggo Monday, June 22, 2009

I had another bizarre dream. There is no real reason for reiterating dreams other than the hope that someone in the future will decode them for you. So I begin. I'm playing myself. Except that I am wearing a delicate, thin white dress I do not own (unforunate because that thing was damn cute). For some reason, I found myself in a world of Russian prostitutes. (It gets weirder). I am not one of these prostitutes, but merely caught up in their war with the local gangsters. All of a sudden, Viggo Mortensen's character from Eastern Promises and his crew shows up. I find my imaginary self running from this group of Russian gangsters in, what I assume is, a city in Russia near a large body of water. I eventually get caught and for some reason the prostitutes hideout is located next to a long wooden dock on the water...situated on this dock is one of those theme park rides that has several rows of seats attatched to two mechanical pillars...The kind that raises higher and higher off the ground until it starts spinning.

This is the point where I get dream nostalgia. Whether or not I have met Viggo Mortensen's character from Eastern Promises in a dream prior to this or not, I got the feeling there was an underlying storyline to all this. Viggo (in a Russian accent) kept threatening me to say his name (some name I could not remember how to pronounce apparently). I got the feeling I had learned it in another dream and I was supposed to say it correctly otherwise the Russian gangsters became very angry. Despite my countless attempts, I could not pronounce it correctly, let alone remember if I was saying the right name even. I kept yelling the name, "Christian"...in as many ways as I could (even though this name surely is not of Russian lineage).

As Viggo became increasingly frustrated with me, and began to pull my hair and wave his gun around...I was forced onto the ride with the rows of seats. He and I then stood unsecured on the ride as Viggo instructed his cronies to start it. As we rose higher and higher into the air...my need to say his name correctly became evermore demanding  . Either I say his name correctly, or I would die. I considered leaping off into the water below, but my fear of heights kicked fervently in. Viggo began to smack me across the face everytime I said his name incorrectly; my imaginary self crying in desperation, "Christian, Christian, Christian...". The ride rose even higher and I looked into Viggo's unsympathetic face...took a few steps over the unsafe row of seats between us and whispered in his ear, "Christian" with the correct pronunciation.

Then I woke up and realized I had slept in too late.


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