Jim Carrey's Nightmare Journal

I'm mentoring a class, when my forehead starts dripping. Greenish pus oozes out my pores, while the students mock and jeer. One kid comes up from behind me and thrusts a paintbrush in my eye. "Just four more hours, Mr. Carrey." My skin feels like glue, with sticky tendrils stretching as I try to seperate my naked form from the chair. I wake up unable to move, and lay there for an hour before falling back asleep.

I'm at home making dinner, only the dinner is a rotting pound of meat, falling apart as it fries on the skillet. The smell makes me gag, but I stand there and start to peel off chunks of it to eat. My stomach turns as I slide the grey shit down my throat, but I just can't stop.

Inside the President's Office, I show Trump my mocking paintings of him. He laughs, his face growing larger. Before I can retort, I start sinking into the rug, shrink-wrapping me in a quilted cocoon. I can't breathe. "Make the face!" A muffled voice cries. I try to contort my facial muscles under the strain. Christ's face appears before me, smiling.

The smell of latex permeates the air in my wine cellar. Rows upon rows of rubbery faces stare back at me. As I reach out to touch one, it snaps its jaws shut, and I feel my teeth start to grind. "Take five!" I hear from above. I'm now one of the heads on the shelves. I rub my teeth together and instinctively shout "THAT'S A SPICY MEATBALL!"

I'm inside the big fuzzy dog van, only now I'm driving with a blue ball on a stick in the passenger seat. Look at the blue ball, make eye contact with the blue ball. I look into its blank, sharpied-on eyes, and a voice coming from an earpiece says "What's shakin'?" I crash the van into a tree, and a large branch extends into my chest cavity. My lungs fill with blood and I start coughing and gagging, waking me up as I gasp for air.

Inside my childhood home, I'm making cookies with mom. I'm talking about a movie I saw the other day and make a face to demonstrate a character to her. She frowns, and wags a finger. "Someday your face will get stuck that way." I feel my face muscles with my fingers, and realize she's right. I can't move a single muscle. My face is frozen in a Jack Nicholson-like expression. I start to cry, and the oven starts burning. "Now look what you've done!" Mom becomes infuriated, and opens the oven up, letting the smoke roll over me. I'm consumed by it, and find myself wrapped in total darkness. "AND THAT'S THE WAY THE COOKIE CRUMBLES." Mom shouts through the void, becoming more distant. I lay in the void for what feels like hours, sobbing.