(As background, I took my first dose of trazodone last night.)

I am wearing my robe, and I have to walk to work with my friend Patricia. We have to walk some awful distance like 30 miles. The walk is muddy and cold, and I am upset because I don't want to go to work. On the way, we stop at a mental health clinic. The grass is terribly green and I want to roll in it, with a water cooler nearby. Patricia urges me to get up, reminding me that if we don't get going, we will be late for work. Reluctantly, I get up and continue walking to work. I am cranky because the hem of my robe is muddy, I am not wearing anything underneath it, and I don't have any shoes on.

When I get to work, it is like another version of the clinic. There are several small washing machines and dryers set up in a decrepit hygiene-themed room. All of the bedsheets are dirty and my co workers are bedraggled. I start to do laundry and I am suddenly transported to a street corner where there is a washing machine with slots to pay for the clothes to be cleaned. So much money has been jammed into the washing machine that it is overflowing with quarters, silver quarters, silver dollars, half dollars, foreign coins, and rare coins. I put my wash into the machine and start scooping the money into my pockets. The people on the corner notice that I have money from the machine, and I share it with them. I realize at this point that I am no longer wearing my robe, but I am dressed in a pair of pants and a comfortable tank top. My hair is done in a spiky red style and I am very happy.

ATM Attendants.

Like parking valets, they stand at the ATM ready to take your card and your PIN and provide you with a full-service ATM experience. Moments later, they give you back your card and the amount of money you'd requested. With a smile and a friendly wave, they sincerely wish that you will have a nice day.

(There was also something in there about being chased around my living room by a Tyrannosaurus, but that's a bit blurry now.)

Some kind of nightmare.

I dreamt that Google had ceased to exist. Apparently, they had gone bankrupt, or something like that. Whenever I pointed my browser to it, I got a friendly notice saying that they had closed down, and that the domain would expire shortly. I was very distressed, and started reluctantly trying various other search engines to see if they had become any better since the last time I tried them.

Of course, they had not. I was very sad, and I had the same kind of feeling as when the International Lyrics Server was closed down.

i have a pet shark who lives in a clear shoebox. i walk around everywhere with him, gently stroking his back. sometimes, he tries to leap out, but then i push him back in because he'll suffocate if he gets out.

. . .

i'm having a party. the pet shark is nowhere to be found. carri and i go upstairs and we proceed to have anal sex on my bed. she's clad in nothing but a black leather corset. i go downstairs to find everyone gone but tricia, and we have anal sex on the couch.

. . .

the previous inhabitants of my dream are gone. i'm with craig in an alleyway somewhere, and i'm trying to tell him about the sex i just had. brian keeps coming over to us, and i don't want him to know about it, so i have to keep pretending i was talking about something else.

I am a juror in a very stately courtroom. Richard Gere, also looking very stately, is making the case to the courtroom that he, Samuel Beckett, has made a far greater contribution to the Arts, as a whole, than his current rival in the 2000 Presidential Race, Chris Rock. George W. Bush, sitting the back of the courtroom, is worried that if Beckett win this case, Beckett will emerge from the three-way dead heat and become the favorite to win not only the Oscar, but also the Presidency.

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