Terms of Service for a Dream: Click “I Agree” to Continue Sleeping

“Close your eyes. Accept the cookies. Try not to click on your ex.”

Cold open

Sleep is the last offline app, and it still ships pop-ups. Your brain runs a nightly A/B test on meaning; the algorithm inside you edits for drama, not repair. If dreams had a TOS, you’d scroll to the bottom and lie to it. So let’s write the contract we actually need—toggles for dignity, rate limits for ghosts, and a customer support policy that doesn’t forward to shame.

This isn’t therapy. It’s product design for REM.

The premise

A dream is not a message; it’s a compression job with vibes. You can’t “opt out,” but you can set guardrails for what gets prioritized by your sleeping editor. Think of this as Adblock for Feelings but for midnight. Fewer jump cuts, fewer reruns, less product placement from your anxieties.

The toggle panel (your nightly settings)

Dream Ads: Off
No branded cameos from apps, feeds, or vaguely threatening productivity tools.

Cameo Requests: Manual
Exes require a two-factor prompt from waking you. If they sneak in, they arrive blurry and quiet.

Time Loops: Rate-limited
Three repeats max. If the scene doesn’t resolve, it degrades into static and you wake up thirsty.

Boss Encounters: Mute
Authority figures speak in dial tone unless they show receipts. (They won’t.)

Body Horror: Blur
If your teeth must fall out, cut to a tasteful pan away. We get it; you grind.

Hero Mode: Disabled by Default
No capes. If triumph appears, it’s earned, not merch.

Product Placement: Parody Only
Any brand that wanders in becomes a rubber chicken. Even the expensive ones.

Map Back to Morning: On
At least one breadcrumb that makes breakfast gentler: a phrase, a color, a small permission.

Fine print (that actually matters)

Data collection
Dreams may record unresolved tasks, stray humiliations, and aspirational nonsense. We don’t sell it. We compress it into weird cartoons and hope you get the gist.

Consent
Characters in dreams are simulations. Real people didn’t sign up to audition for your subconscious. Use Reality Boundary Test in the morning to separate “symbol” from “someone.”

Retention
Unresolved loops decay after 72 hours unless you feed them with doomscrolling. Your feed is a renewal link; don’t click.

Dispute resolution
Nightmares can be appealed by journaling in six sentences or less. Length is how rumination wins.

Refunds
None. You paid with cortisol. We’ll comp you one afternoon nap and a glass of water.

Security
If an intruder thought pattern exploits a zero-day (late-night email, sugar), patch with breathing and distance. See Airplane Mode Checkup for emergency offline mode.

Patch notes for your subconscious (v0.1)

Removed: jump-scare deadlines
Added: “door opens easily” default behavior
Improved: scene transitions; fewer hallway chases, more quick exits
Deprecated: anxiety riddles with no keys
Known bug: your brain insists the school you didn’t attend still owes you a test

How to install (low ceremony)

Tonight, read the toggle panel once. That’s it. Your editor will find it. In the morning, jot the breadcrumb you woke with—and one thing you’re not going to feed today (no “quick peeks” at outrage). Proof you changed the settings isn’t a dream log; it’s a calmer breakfast.

If you need a ritual (thirty seconds, max)

Lights dim. Phone flips. One line out loud: “No ads, no reruns, no guests without a reason.” Then sleep like you signed something binding and slightly ridiculous—because you did.