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The first time Steve Buscemi visited me in my slumber was my freshman year of high school. He came to me in one of the most vivid and detailed dreams my teenage self had ever had. The experience was bizarre, but I had the unshakable feeling that it was important. Still, I had no idea what it meant, and soon it faded from my mind.
For a few years, all was quiet. I didn't have the dream and figured it was a one-off weirdness event. No nocturnal Buscemi visitations...
...Until he returned. I was in college and starting to find my place in the waking world, when again, my dream-world was rocked. From there, I've had these #weird #dreams on four separate occasions, and every detail remains the same. It comes back every few years, and I still don't know what to make of it. Clearly, my subconscious is trying to tell me something - or, as I'm increasingly convinced, #SteveBuscemi himself is attempting to contact me telepathically. But why?
My life remains haunted by this mystery - and I'm still no closer to uncovering the truth. Can you help me? Interpret this #dream, and I may feature your words in a follow-up article!
By Night, I See...
Myself, at a magnificent party in a beautiful palace.
I'm wearing a bammin' slammin' spectacular burgundy dress. Velvet. Sumptuous. I look fantastic.
The whole party looks amazing too; burgundy velvet seems to be a decorative theme, because everyone's wearing it. The carpet is the same plush, deep red. The sofas and chairs are upholstered in it, and everything is luxurious and looks incredibly expensive. Maybe Baroque-era? Rococo? Something super-elegant and elaborately styled.
So I'm loving it, gliding around with fancy people and having a fancy time - when suddenly, disaster strikes.
A little boy, maybe four, five years old - who looks kind of like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone - suddenly runs up to me. He has a handful of cake (red velvet, of course) with pastel-pink icing. No plate; he clearly just grabbed a handful of it and is smushing it in his bare hand. I can see the icing oozing out between his fingers. All the colors in this dream are so vivid, and it stands out stark and bright.
I have kind of a slow-motion 'NOOOO' moment because I see what he's going to do with that cake - about two seconds before the little twerp smears it all over my dress. Before I can do anything, he's left a swath of pink destruction across the deep red fabric, then run away giggling and disappeared into the crowd.
I'm so mad. I am furious. And I have to clean off my dress. This is my favorite dream-dress, darn it.
So I grab a napkin, sit down on the nearest (velvet, burgundy) sofa, and start trying to wipe off the pink icing. I'm not having much success, and I'm just about to leave to find a bathroom or something, when I notice I'm not alone on the sofa. There's somebody next to me, and I gasp when I recognize him.
It's Mr. Steve Buscemi.
But instead of partying, he looks distressed, leaning forward with his head hanging down low and covering the right side of his face with his hand. (He's wearing elegant white gloves.) I'm concerned; is he crying? I try to get his attention, and slowly he looks up at me with an expression of deep pain. He doesn't take his hand away from his eye.
I ask again if he's okay, if there's something in his eye.Looking exhausted, hurt, and deeply embarrassed, he takes his hand away.
There's nothing in his eye. In fact, his entire right eye is missing. I look into the deep, dark, empty socket, yawning before me like a cave.
He gives me a silent shrug, looking chagrined but helpless.
"Can I help?" I ask.
Wordlessly, he hands me a gleaming silver fork. (Suddenly he just has it - was it in his other hand? Did he summon it by magic?) Then, he nods down toward the floor and I look down too.
Sitting on the deep red carpet is his missing eyeball. Bright and blue and staring up at me, surrounded by long strings of eye-tendrils.
Steve Buscemi looks at me pleadingly. I look at the fork in my hand. In an instant, I know just what to do.
I reach down and carefully begin to twirl the dangling eyeball-strings around the fork, like it's spaghetti, and his eyeball is the meatball.
Slowly, I raise the fork and its precious cargo up to his face, and very gently help him pop it back into its socket. After a few moments of careful adjustment, Mr. Buscemi looks up at me with his clear, undamaged eyes. His relief is palpable.
He still doesn't speak, but he beams at me. It's a slow, tentative smile, but one filled with joy. He has been healed. I have pleased him.
I wake up.
What Does It All Mean?
So, my clever readers - I turn to you for help. Please, interpret this dream for me. What do you think my subconscious is trying to tell me?
Or is it indeed a telepathic message from Mr. Buscemi himself? Do you think he ever dreams about me? Has he ever healed my injured eyeballs? Are we destined to meet and collaborate on a short film on this subject, a surrealist work that will resonate for centuries to come?
Or are we simply star-crossed travelers, carried on dream-mists and bound by cosmic fate?
I Want To Know Your Stories!
I may do a follow-up article on celebrity dreams - and your interpretations of this one!
Has Mr. Buscemi ever entered your dreamscape? If not, who has?
If you've ever had a weird celebrity dream-visit, recurring or not, I want to hear your #truestory. And I definitely want to know what you think of mine.