I was in a classroom, having a German lesson. All classes I've taken anywhere past the age of 12 have been in classrooms with those high school style desks: basically an uncomfortable little chair with an armrest and a writing surface welded onto one side, and a storage basket hanging underneath. (Well, that's not true...most of my classes in a real university were in movie theater sized lecture halls, but still with little writing surfaces that swung out from the armrest.) Before that, in elementary school, we had these tables that seated 4-6 people, and had a storage basket for each person attached to the underside of the tabletop. For some reason, the classroom for my German class had those old elementary school tables.

Sitting next to me was Zoe, my friend from the last real German class I took. When I realized where I was, and that she was sitting there with me, I got excited. I miss Zoe so much! I wanted to ask her all about Pittsburgh and her dark, reddish hair that looks like sunlight passing through a glass of cherry coke. Just as cute dimples appeared on her cheeks and she had cleared her throat to talk to me some more about her adventures riding on city buses, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Oh my god! I hadn't seen Angela for years, and here she was sitting at the table next to mine. Her dark tan, her short black hair, and that silly grin on her face. She asked me some more about Plato, which is what we used to always talk about in our favorite coffee house. Specifically, whether my opinions had changed regarding the universal clockwork described in the Timaeus, and how it related to scientology. I reacted hysterically to her question, because in real life my ex girlfriend had just called me up to share with me that she was getting involved with the Church of Scientology. I could probably do it, but it'd be a bit of a stretch for me to try and relate the Timaeus with scientology. So I just asked how she was doing and I let her question fade away into the dream. Just as one of those silly things that occur in dreams.

The professor started, well, professing. He kept pointing his finger in the air, and he sounded like Dexter as he kept saying, "Ich bin ein Berliner du fromage!" Yes, "du fromage" is the French way to say something's cheesy. (You know that Dexter's Laboratory episode? "Omelette du fromage!") Angela pulled out a blue box of cigarettes that had "Du Fromage!" written on it, and she excused herself to go to the bathroom and smoke.

All of a sudden, the professor needed more paper. Why, I don't know. He just did. Lots of it. Inches upon inches of thick stacks of paper. He needed them, and he came to me to get them. Alas, I had none. "You're good friends with Angela, does she have some? She left her stuff," he asked. I think my mind had things confused. The professor didn't know Angela. He knew Zoe, and recognized that we were pals and always assumed I could answer for her in her absense. But not Angela. I accused the professor of smoking crack as a source of his confusion. And he confessed! And he was going to sell the stacks of paper to buy even more crack. So I opened up Angela's notebook and handed him a 2 inch thick stack of clean, white laser printer paper. He hunched over and drooled like a fiend with crazy eyes as he flipped through the paper he had just scored, counting the sheets.

Then Zoe started making out with me, but just before anything more than kissing occurred my Palm Pilot started beeping at me in real life, and I woke up. A project I was on last year that was discontinued had these weekly meetings each Friday morning. My lazy ass hasn't updated the calendar in my Palm Pilot to remove those meetings from my schedule. That stupid fucking project just cost me a wet dream with Zoe!