When I got home, I discovered that magical pixies and elves had broken into my apartment. These fiends washed my dishes and pots and pans. I am outraged and the CSPD just hang up when I call to file a report.
First stop was my father's business. I came around the back way. When I looked in the windows I saw the lights were on, my father was doing his closing up routine and accompanying him was the young chick from work. The one who gave the accidental downblouse, had blue hair and suffered a heart attack sometime in May of 2004. Why? I have no idea. Upon reflection she always seems to be sociable and eager to help so I reckon I'd want someone like that to help my dad since my sister doesn't have it in her.
When I puttered around to the front and went inside I found that the only lights were Christmas decorations. The shop was long closed for the evening. This made me feel sad and started a train of thought. "How much longer is my dad going to keep it up?" and "When is he going to hire more people?"
Since my father reads heptapod.org, I don't need the answers to these questions. It's just a dream. OK?
I returned to my wheelchair and started towards my hometown. The snow was falling faster and heavier than earlier that night. By the time I reached one of the main drags in my hometown, Mountain Avenue and Caldwell right across the street from the high school for those in the know, the chair's battery gave up the ghost. Thankfully it folded up into something quite portable and I continued the rest of the journey on foot. Each step was painful and I had to walk very slowly, pausing to curse under my breath. Up ahead near the new firehouse and the converted railroad station there was a street Christmas party.
People from waking life were exchanging presents with each other. Everyone was standing outside in the blizzard in their summer clothes. The exchanges weren't final and folks were swapping and switching presents until they had a feeling that they had the right present. None of the presents were opened or shaken by the recipients.
I don't seem to have any regulars in my dreams. People who reside exclusively in my dream but make frequent appearances are non-existent. Everyone who populates my dreams is from waking life. Should I consider this as a sign of being an unskilled dreamer? Am I more tied to the materialistic waking life than something far more subtle like dreams or spirits?
Why are you putting that piano wire around my thrGGGLLKK CANT HURRRKKK BREA
raddidge couldn't make it online Monday night. Her network connection was down and her brother wasn't available to fix things. We spoke for fifty four minutes about her situation and I expounded upon Nethack per her request. Hopefully I made the game a bit easier for her. When she remembered that it was a long distance call, she insisted that we end the call because it was costing me money. I told her, "I'm the one who called you. I wouldn't have done that if I couldn't swing it!"
