Let’s talk dreams.
In my most recent dream I had a bunch of friends over at my place for a party. A simple enough premise. Except by “my place” I mean some gigantic, beautifully decorated building I don’t recall ever seeing before. Something like if the Palace of Versailles was white and blues instead of gold. As I’m stood in front of a hall mirror with a few of my girls, one of whom is re-checking her make up, news reaches me that my lecturer
who reminds me of a cross between my high school French teacher and my current semantics lecturer has come to give me my exam results. The girls push and shove me into a curtained-off room, which turns out to be a very nice bathroom, and promptly begin telling me the useless generic things that I don’t remember. Probably gossip. All my girls like gossip. Anyway, one of the two girls who dragged me into the bathroom suddenly flings back the purple curtain saying “I have to know!” before running out. Next thing I know, she’s returned with this huge ice cream cone, filled with strawberry ice cream, whipped cream and mini marshmallows.That, as I quickly discovered, was my grade, a B. I was pretty happy! Ice cream and a good grade, pretty good as far as dreams go.
Walking out of the bathroom, two people, one girl and a guy with a half open shirt, standing close to one another jump apart like they shouldn’t have been seen together. Someone who hasn’t appeared in the dream before appears out of no where, grabs the shirt-guy and runs over to me telling me there’s a “crisis”. The crisis in question is the only person who’s face I can remember is in the attic crying because he just came out. This caught me off guard due to the real-world fact of him being straight, but shirt-guy and I ran up the staircase to my attic. Which for some reason looked like the real thing, not like this imaginary mansion my brain conjured up.
(I know shirt-guy reminded me of someone from reality but I couldn’t place him, all I know is I enjoyed, and was distracted by, the eyecandy that was showing under that shirt. I’m a letch, so sue me.)
Shirt-guy and I burst into the attic to find my friend lounging on my hideous brown striped sofa (also a relic from the real word) surrounded by various other guys with no names and no place-able faces. The poor guy then begins weeping and trying to explain as I hug him and reassure him that nobody is judging him. The ice cream appears from thin air again, and the doorbell rings.
I wake up, answer the door to the security guys, climb back into bed, and discover why I took English Language not Literature. I suck at re-telling stories.