By: Sarah Ricciardi
When I was a kid, I had nightmares every night. Most of them were pretty typical: serial killers, demons, clowns…. Due to a particularly troubling episode of Square One TV, I couldn’t have an alarm clock in my room for like three years. I was convinced every clock was actually a bomb set to go off at exactly 3:12am. And I refused to stretch my feet to the end of the bed because I was absolutely sure scorpions would sting them. You know, since scorpions typically live in little girls’ beds. (Thank you Dad for letting me watch The Arrival at the age of seven). Needless to say, I wasn’t the smartest kid.
As I got older, my dreams evolved. In my teens, they mostly involved aggressive acne and having dog food poured down my back while slow-dancing at Prom. (Thank you Leelee Sobieski).
I don’t think I dreamt at all in my early twenties. If I did, I don’t remember them. Then again, I don’t remember much of my waking hours either. The only think that my twenty-year old self feared was reaching the bottom of a bottle of Hendricks. Okay, who am I kidding? I couldn’t afford Hendricks.
Law school brought the nightmares back. At first, I dreamt of cold calls and “the Hairy Hand” – obviously. Then, the dreams became a little less predictable and a bit more depressing. Now when I close my eyes at night, I see “id.’s” with unitalicized periods and n-dashes where there should be m-dashes. It’s terrifying. The other night I woke up screaming because I dreamt that I’d forgotten to sign a cover letter. And I keep having this recurring nightmare that my Linkedin account has been hacked and now everyone thinks I’m a preschool teacher from Poughkeepsie, who eats kale chips and thinks “amicus curaie” is a venereal disease.
I can’t wait until I can afford Hendricks.