mk700c

I had a series of strange dreams last night.

In the last one, I was pursued by gangsters, thugs and various other shady types who were were unsuccessfully trying to take my life. Each one would try, and each one would fail as I hopped out a window, jumped off a roof, or pummeled him with the nearby lid of a comode.

These attacks were all interspersed with some very awesome, yet mellow, hangin' with some good friends - of identities uncertain - but I could tell they were good, and friends. We were doing hip things like playing trivial pursuit and drinking wine.

Finally, all alone in my apartment, which apparently for the purposes of my unconscious-self is a 2nd floor walk-up in Toronto, all the previous assasins cornered me. Some of them still bearing damage from their previous tanglings with me and my ceramic arsenal.

I was trapped, it seemed there was nothing I could do. The trucker was there, beated and bloody. The two mobsters, and their guy who played on my side until I got wise and escaped him out the same window through which I was attempting to escape this time.

They all followed me out onto the small outcropping of roof below my 2nd story window. I was looking off, ready to jump into the dumpster as I had before, but they were wise to it. Guns were pulled, there was some discussion, my "friend," was trying to convince me he was still on my side, I was eying the salad bar.

Yes, there was a salad bar on the roof.

Strange, absolutely, but I wasn't going to complain. The large bins of weightier condiments, perhaps a trough of Bleu Cheese, were looking lethal enough to whack the nearest assailant over the head and be into the dumpster below before the others could shoot. It was a small chance, but a chance it was, and remember in a dream, you don't know it's a dream ... this was life or death. I was willing to wield the Hidden Valley of death.

Just then, little holes appeared, one at a time, in the forheads of all four attackers. Even more surprising, was the little fountains of blood, and general dead-and-falling-over that they were all experiencing.

I looked over my shoulder.

Sitting a few rooftops away were my hipster, yuppie, grad-degree, trivial pursuit, wine and coaster friends. One of them was holding and enormous super-spy sniper rifle.

Then they came over and we all talked about Derrida, had some brie and crackers, and they helped me hide the bodies.

I knew I liked my friends, but I guess this is what I really think of them, even subconsciously.

I guess what I'm saying is, thanks, apparently I think quite a bit of you.