I am tired of my dreams.
I do not mean this in a world-weary, woe-is-me sense. I mean it literally. My dreams. The ones I have while I am asleep. I am tired of them.
When I work on a particularly involved project (such as the web programming job I am currently taking a break from to write this), that project tends to be reflected in my dreams. My subconscious is speaking to me in HTML. I have not been seeing actual faces while I slumber -- rather, I have seen what a particular face might look like, were it to be rendered in a table format. Once I could not speak unless I created the words in a headline graphic (UBSHeadlineRegular, 24pt, Crisp, #FF6600) in Photoshop first. I wake up and have already done a full day's work.
I would rather go back to my usual dreams, infrequent though they seem to be. Ones in which I might be able to slip to another dimension pursued by Donald Sutherland; fly once I learn how to tack into the wind; create things with a thought; run up a flight of star-stairs to trap the evil aliens who moved in next door; cry over the body of my dead father, Atticus Finch; even that old nightmare where I watch my Claymation friend get his Claymation legs squished, while (inexplicably) Huckleberry Hound provides narration.
Yes, so my normal dreams are sometimes pretty weird. Blame it on my brain; it never listens to me.