Me, Freddy and Dummy Head

I opened the IDS this Tuesday straight to the opinion section, and the first thing that caught my eye was a headline that read, "My first date."\nWhat kind of pathetic loser would be dumb enough to admit he went on his first date during college?\nThat would be me.\nNow, the real question is why anyone would prominently display such an embarrassing fact on the IDS for all to see.\nIt's because my subconscious has it out for me.\nEver since I was a little boy, my subconscious (who I affectionately call Freddy) has been trying to kill me through embarrassment. He would have succeeded by now, too, if I didn't find the embarrassing things I do so funny. \nI'm not too sure why Freddy hates me so. Personally, I blame the pureed peas my mother fed me when I was baby. That stuff looks so gross. That's the real problem with America's youth today -- baby food. I guarantee you that if mothers started feeding their children pureed chocolate cake, young people would be a lot better adjusted. But that's just my humble and totally stupid opinion.\nI have collected some evidence to prove that Freddy is against me. \n(The very fact that I'm trying to prove my subconscious has a vendetta against me probably is a telling sign of mental illness, but I'll worry about that in a later column.)\nEvidence 1: I have conversations in my sleep. This fact is well-documented, and has been the comedic topic of many a family reunion. Because I'm sleeping, I don't remember these conversations in the morning (duh), but I'm guessing since Freddy is in charge, they went something like this.\nMom: "Honey, are you awake?"\nMe: "Man, I really hate pureed peas."\nMom: "What?"\nMe: "I'm pretty sure I'm adopted, and that my real parents own a pet monkey."\nMom: "Good night, Joe."\nEvidence 2: Freddy uses my pride to make sure that I complete the tasks he sets me upon.\nFor example, last winter my Dad asked me if I wanted to go snowboarding, knowing very well that every time I try a sport in which something is blocking my feet from touching the ground, I get injured. Of course, Freddy answers "yes" before my conscious (who Freddy affectionately calls Dummy Head) can think it through. Then my pride kicks in and won't let me back out.\nAs a result, I'm now the only person to ever have to be driven down the mountain strapped to an emergency snowmobile because I busted my head open getting off the chair lift. That's like getting injured while putting your football uniform on. Sigh.\nEvidence 3: Actually, I don't think I can come up with anything else. Crap.\nNo matter what Freddy does, I simply can't hate him back. Mainly, this is because that would mean I hate myself, and that's just too messed up for me to think about right now at 8 a.m.\nSo, it seems I'm doomed to embarrassing situations, a constantly red face, and moments where I want to hide in a box labeled George Washington (no one would ever think to look there). Yes, I'm doomed to the life of a humor columnist.