First scene. My belongings -- books, notebooks, money, keys, newspaper, who knows what else -- are pushed out of the way on the table or dresser. Something is going on. I go to look for them? Anyway, I'm on the submarine with my newspaper and notebook restored, and some confidence the others are safer.

There was more here, now gone. Towards the end I ask my Dad to drop me off back on dry land, so the submarine weaves back through the lanes marked off by buoys and between yachts, and drops me by the cottage door. I clamber out of the hatch.

Second scene. We're stopped at a traffic light and we, mainly my mother and I, see something odd about the car in front. It belongs to the man who... well I've never seen him (or his car) and we've never discussed it, but somehow I knew there was a gap in the first year or two of my life. This man... fostered me? Took me away for psychological experiments? Anyway, we're pretty cross now, Mother and I, and I'm out of the car on the side of the road noting down the model, colour, and number of the car. (It was red, and I was so clear about remembering them in the dream that I feel I ought to know them still.)

This turns to a jeering encounter. We were both angry with him and were hopping into him. He was out of his car defending himself: bouffanced hair, a small smarmy moustache. He was now trying to bluster and justify his actions of all those years ago. The car now behind him had...

We were assembled indoors now, and the car behind him had held his lawyer or more likely some kind of social worker or child psychologist. She was trying to turn the advantage his way, suggesting I had probably been turned into a homosexual by my treatment at the hands of my real parents. We retorted that it was much more likely that he was a paedophile.

The vilification continued and we got the upper hand. When he left, a small black dog, his fur had become matted, he had shrunk, and he was yelping, so piteously that I felt sorry for him and had to refrain myself from patting him to make it feel better.

I came inside, flung myself into a corner of the sofa, and sobbed.

Odd because it didn't follow the plot of any dream I can remember having before. Odd because it didn't involve anyone I know, not even myself.

The tall steel and glass tower of the headquarters of Morgan Enterprises. CEO Nwabudike Morgan greets the foreign investors in his office overlooking the city. He and his most successful executives (who have no names nor faces) have agreed to donate some DNA samples for a noble cause.

Good sir, there is nothing you could take from me that I would more willingly part withal.... Except my life. Except my life. Except my life.

The executives are taken on a tour of the foreigners' My dorm. I think, "the entrance down on the right should be open." It is. They make their way inside. And oh yeah: it's a ship now, not a building.

The body of the ship is filled (rather sparsely) with cubicles. Each executive checks out a different one. The one Morgan walks into is shaped like this:

|           <-- M
|          _____
|    |     |    |
|    |     |    |
|    |  X  | A  |
|    |     |    |
|____|     |____|
Just as he reaches X, the mousetrap is sprung and a false ceiling unrolls from A, subsequently lowering walls to the ground.

They all fall screaming into a dark pit, so dark no light can ever escape. Outside, a brunette reporter is describing why the aliens abducted them.

I'm in a hotel room, sitting on the floor amidst a stack of newspapers. I'm looking for a job.

No. Not a job. A career.

The tv is playing an Alfred Hitchcock presents episode. My mom is asleep on the bed. Or at least laying down. She asks me if I've found anything and I tell her about a couple. We discuss the options. I decide to visit one the next day and inquire about the job.

Time passes.

I go to the place where one of the jobs is being offered. As I get to the smoked glass double doors of the red brick building, there's a girl (read as: female in her early twenties) who is standing by the door. Apparently, there's some sort of conference going on with a lot of youth. Unfortunately, one of the youth in attendance had thought that housing was provided. She was a ten year old girl who was there alone. The powers that be had decided that the girl could crash at the business (I'm not sure exactly what sort of business it was), but the girl was scared of ghosts and thought that the building was haunted.

So I go into the building and stand in a large open room. Sort of the fellowship hall sort of thing you see at churches throughout the American Midwest. A bunch of us walk up to a guy who is standing there talking.

Someone pokes me in the back. I turn around and there are a couple of people that I know. They seemed to pretend that they didn't know what had happened. I turn back towards the guy who is talking.

Someone pokes me in the back again. I turn around and there are a different couple of people. Again, they don't know anything about poking me in the back.

I'm beginning to think that there are, perhaps, ghosts.

I turn back to the guy and he's an Elmer Fudd sort of guy. He's surrounded by all these wire mesh cages that are designed to hold rabbits.

But not just any rabbit. Bugs Bunny.

In fact, he's got Bugs trapped in one of these traps. They're weird wire-mesh-straight-jacket-types of things. They are kept closed by a larger wire handle that's attached to the front of the cage, but slide through an opening in the back. By holding on to the handle, it is impossible for the caged individual to get out.

He lets go of the handle.

Bugs, who is portrayed at this point as a three foot tall rabbit with long curly black fur, gets out of the cage and starts to go berserk. He starts ripping people to shreds. Only I can't see him. He's behind a desk and all I can see are his black ears as he rips out the legs from under people.

I wake up pondering conditions for keeping cartoon animals and the notion of cruelty towards those animals.

Little House on the Prairie: The True Story

For some reason, I had a view into what really went on in the Ingalls family - Laura Ingalls Wilder completely fictionalized most of the books because sometime after On the Banks of Plum Creek, the family cooked and ate Mary and one of the babies. Laura couldn't deal with this, so she went on with the stories, having Mary go blind, &c.

Also, the dream was incredibly disjointed in time. Almanzo Wilder ended up fighting in World War I (I think...) and came home shellshocked. He spent most of his days staring at the ocean - oh, yes, they ended up living in a little cabin on the beach. They had two daughters, one of whom was named Sheeney and was a very modern-day photographer.

Yes, I realize I need to stop smoking crack before bedtime.

I was walking home from work along Route 40, a busy six lane highway near my home with a chubby gentleman. We were co-workers, and getting to know one another by walking home together. As we turned off of Route 40 to a quieter side street, a car nearly hit me. I had to jump out of the way, and it brushed my hip.

I was furious and saw the car turn into a driveway up ahead. I went to the house and began yelling at the young girl who had been driving. She had a serious attitude. She went into the house and her mother came out, who started apologizing and making excuses for her daughter's behavior and attitude. I was furious that this mother was trying to let her daughter get away with nearly killing some one. A Raggedy Ann doll came flying out of a window and hit my dress. It was soaked in urine.

I wanted to fight the girl really bad, but I knew she was stronger than me and would whip my ass. I kept arguing with the mother. Something else flew out of the house and hit me - I think a book.

The co-worker was trying to get me to give up and leave, but I wouldn't. Finally, I did, and we walked away. I remember feeling humiliated and furious at the same time.

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