Dear Dreamers,

I have a recurring dream. It’s not the one you’ve probably heard mentioned, that stock high school mortification dream where you’re walking through hallways and past rows of lockers, everything peachy-keen except for the part where you’re butt-naked and everyone is gaping at you. Despite your condition, in that dream, you keep parading through the hallways, privates unleashed, unable to do anything about it, and in the back of your mind you know this is not good, not at all — at some point, if not already, there will be hell to pay for this little jaybird jaunt.

No, my dream is weirder than that. In it, I lift my index finger to the corner of my right eye to pop out a gas-permeable contact lens (even though I haven’t worn these in years), and when I do, a steady stream of contact lenses begins to flow from my eye and won’t stop. The lenses pile up, up, up, on tables, all around me, even underneath me. I find myself sitting on a veritable mountain of tiny circular plastic discs, which oddly enough I can see quite clearly. My feeling in this dream is slight annoyance, a bit of horror, some embarrassment, and a whiff of WTF. Because, WTF.