I know, you don’t want to hear about the dream I had the other night,but I’m gonna tell you anyway. Because this is my blog and I’ll boreyou into a glassy-eyed stare if I want to. Drunk with power, I tellya. Anyway, I’ll keep it short.
Begin foggy dream sequence.
Aftercrawling through ventilation ducts (and performing various maneuvers Iprobably picked up from having seen Lethal Weapon a few too manytimes), I drop down in front of a locked door. I pick the lock, rush inand find a small blond boy who looks like he belongs on an oatmealcommercial. I am there to save him. A very bad man (who I will later,in an after-hitting-the-snooze-button sequel dream, defeat with more ofmy Martin Riggs moves) is holding children captive. I have an inklingof what’s gone on. It’s bad. He has, though, left the childrensandwiches to eat while he’s away doing other dastardly things. We sitcross-legged on the floor, the little boy and I, as he shows them to me.
“Thisone is Annie’s,” he says, holding one of the wax paper wrappedsandwiches, then laying it at his feet. I wonder where Annie is beingkept. “This one is Kevin’s.” Again, he lays it down. “This one ismine.”
“And this one,” he says, looking at me with doe eyes “is yours.”
The door slams shut.
End foggy dream sequence.
Whatthe hell. Seriously? This is my dream and I’m getting captured by apedophile psychopath? Not. Cool. My mom says it’s about rejoining theworkforce (the sandwich being my paycheck, capture being employment).But I don’t feel trapped. I kind of actually like working. Ithink it’s a warning against falling for blond boys with big eyes. Andthat sandwiches are bad. I like to keep things literal.