Every so often, J. will recount one of his dreams to me. It's usually something like this: "I was in line at the bank, and when it got to be my turn I went up to the teller and..."
"And?" I'll ask.
"And I deposited my check."
"That's it? That's the dream?" I'll ask, usually with a mug of strong coffee close at hand.
"Yeah, that's it," he'll answer. "God, my subconscious is boring."
And it is, sometimes. Boring, I mean. His, mine, yours probably. We play and replay bits from the day: current events, feelings, snippets of things we randomly remember, blended up in our heads like a sort of psychic smoothie.
"Oh God. Tell me you're not watching House again," J. will plead from the living-room door, a pained expression on his face.
But I am. Over and over. I pretend I'm not, that I don't care, that he can turn to Sportscenter and--la di da--all will be well. But it's not okay. I'm watching House, dammit.
I need to watch grumpy, two-dimensional House, who behaves like an ass, who says the things I only wish I could say, who wades through pain and messiness and gore and manages nearly every time to save a life in 49 minutes or less--usually without any discernable effect on his stubble, or his mood, for that matter.
It's compact, familiar and deeply satisfying--sort of like an Oreo.