BB Grey–musings

I’m obsessed with this keyboard. It’s not just a keyboard—it’s my sparring partner. Typing on it feels like a duel, like it’s daring me to keep up. Unlike those modern, low-profile abominations that feel like typing on a wet napkin, this thing has ‘attitude’. It’s not some passive, limp-wristed keypad. No, this keyboard punches back. The harder I press, the harder it resists, like it’s saying, “Oh, you think you’re tough? Try me, buddy.” It’s confrontational, like a grumpy old man who refuses to retire. And the noise it makes? Oh, it’s not just clacking—it’s ‘talking’. The faster I type, the more it squawks back at me, like a keyboard possessed by the spirit of a disgruntled Delhi street vendor. “CLACK-CLACK-CLACK!” it screams, as if I’ve insulted its ancestors. I pause, click my mouse, delete a typo, and resume the chaotic dance of my thoughts, which are as scattered as my fingers flying over this gloriously stubborn machine.

But let’s talk about the dream. Oh, the dream. Last night, my subconscious decided to take me on a wild ride. Someone I trusted—no idea who, dream logic, you know—led me down a white corridor that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie. At the end of this hallway was an opening, and beyond it? Five dairy cows. Just chilling, grazing, living their best cow lives. And then, bam! Dream ESP kicked in, and I knew these cows were my responsibility. Not just any cows, though. Nope. These cows were the women in my life. Don’t ask me how I knew—dreams don’t do explanations. They just drop bombs like, “Hey, these cows? Yeah, they’re your mom, your ex, your boss, and that barista who always messes up your order. Good luck with that.”

Of course, telling any of these women, “Hey, I dreamed you were a cow,” would be social suicide. So, I woke up, stared at the ceiling, and tried to figure out which woman was which cow. Black and white hides, black and white answers—except nothing was clear. I gave up, rolled over, and went back to sleep. But now, here I am, writing about it because apparently, my brain thinks cow symbolism is Pulitzer-worthy material.

My mom always had these vivid, prophetic dreams. Like, she’ll dream about a tornado, and the next day, Aunt Karen shows up unannounced. Coincidence? Maybe. But I can’t help wondering if dreams are just random brain farts or if there’s some divine logic to the chaos. If they’re God-driven, then maybe they’re messages, like celestial texts that need decoding. But if they’re just my brain running wild without adult supervision, then they’re probably as useful as a screen door on a submarine. Still, we treat them like they’re profound, like they’re little nuggets of wisdom from the universe. Or maybe we’re just desperate for meaning in this hot mess of a world.

Anyway, the pecking has slowed down, and so have my thoughts. I’ve hit my self-imposed 500-word daily quota, so I’m calling it. The keyboard, the cows, the existential questions about dreams and God—they can all chill until tomorrow.