I had an awful dream last night and I woke up this morning feeling alarmed and distraught. It’s not to hard to dissect from where I sit, but I want to write it down as it is a pretty good indicator of what my nightly pharmaceutical cocktail has been doing to my dream/thought patterns and sleep habits.
I was upstairs in a store that I worked in selling musical instruments (which I have never done in my life knowing very little about music and playing instruments in general) and there was a floor to ceiling window that overlooked the street. The store and the window reminded me of looking out the windows at Borders or David Jones in down town Brisbane, but the street below looked more like a regular row of town houses in any suburb on London (attached houses with a shared roofline and short useless front fences that don’t really divide their occupants from their neighbours at all).
There was two pregnant women standing beside each other on the doorstep/stoop of the townhouse directly across the street from the shop window where I was looking down on the scene. A man about two doors over who (I am reluctant to say) was dressed in the typical shalwar kameez style prevalent on the subcontinent or southern Asia is what we call it now I guess. He was staring at the two heavily pregnant (western attired) women in a palpably menacing way and I felt like I had to do something but I didn’t know what.
They ambos and cops muscled me away from the women and told me to go back to work. When I rentered the building, it was no longer a musical instrument shop but was BigSal and Surly’s pizza store where I was greeted by one of the managers (a young man of particularly sour disposition) who told me I was covered in blood and I should go out back and clean myself up before I could return to work making pizza. I went out the back door (where I have never been in real life) and was confronted by a dozen angry customers who were all yelling at me demanding that I do something about the extremely profane and offensive graffitti that was all over the back wall of the pizza shop.
So what have I learned from my horrible dream?
Don’t let strangers upset you by talking about miscarriage.
Don’t fight with Nieman Marcus anymore over designer handbag debarcle.
Call the Homemake Center and have them deal with "LAURIES R GAY CUNTS" graffitti*.
I’m obviously sick of BigSal and Surly’s pizza
Oh… and it’s probably not wise to mix up my drugs at bed time.
boys Catholic school.