Last night, I had a dream that I was trapped in an elevator with Madonna and her messianically-named daughter Lourdes. The elevator was completely douched to fuck and swinging in weird directions like it was on a track designed by Tim Burton.

The weirdest thing about this dream (yeah, I haven’t even gotten there yet) is that I’ve had it before. Not the Madonna-Lourdes part–that was new–but the unstable elevator moving in fucked up, scary ways part. I have variations on that dream all the time.

I looked up the symbolism of elevators in dreams, and found nothing but useless pap like “If you’re moving up, it means you feel your life is on the ascent” and “If your’re moving down, it means you’ve got a problem you’re not sure how to solve” blah blah blah.

Yeah, well, my elevators look like they were designed by Jordan Mozer and move like the St. Louis Arch elevator on three kinds of crack. I can only guess that means I’ll be diagnosed with a raging case of schizophrenia within the week. Possibly by a headshrinker who plays “Ray of Light” on a loop.

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