Damnit, I forgot my cigarettes

 

First dream: I don’t know if I’m a reporter or a detective, but I’m working a case, investigating a missing children boom. I think  it stemmed from my Twitter rants about the Westboro Baptists protesting that nine-year-old girl’s funeral. It was grainy, my dreams usually are – which only proves I watch way too many movies. My partner/photographer and I were poring over stacks of information and documentation that we’d picked up over the investigation. Questions were asked and photographs were taken. I could feel that we were closing in on whatever it we were looking for. And then the photographer/partner just perks up, “I hear they drown their young in bathtubs.” And that was the end of the dream.

Second dream: This is the one I woke up to. I received the phone call that I’d have to repeat the eighth grade. Only, I’m 27-years-old and I’m not a big fan of  Adam Sandler movies. I agree to do it. An old teacher/mentor of mine who teaches the eighth grade – only at an opposing school – agrees to help me out and get me started. Along with Jyg’s younger brother, Ruben – who is in college at the moment, but was in the eighth grade in my dreamworld – I return to school to complete whatever it is I have to do.

Mentor friend: Do you really have to do this?
Me: Yes. If I don’t, they’re gonna void my diploma.
Ruben: But you have a degree.
Me: They’ll void that, too.

Dreams rarely make any sense to me. Until next time, keep on truckin’.

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