Dream Perception

I talk about dreams a lot, I admit. They fascinate me. They should fascinate everybody. Because nobody really knows much about them, no matter how much they’re studied. I actually did my multigenre senior research paper in high school on the subject of dreams, which built up pretty much my entire perception of them. Up until now, I saw dreams as the brain organizing leftover thoughts and material while the rest of the body rested, though I love the theory that dreams are “practice” for real-life situations, whether it be a fight for your life or a mundane day at the office.

But last night I dreamed up a whopper.

It shook my foundational beliefs about dreams just a little.

It differed from my usual dreams. Okay, there was a fight or two. There was a dystopian subterranean society. But it all started…

…with a job interview.

Let’s begin.

From what I gather, I had graduated college and was ready to step into a new graphic design career. I had an interview scheduled with some really nice company in a big city. I remember approaching the office building, all glimmering windows under a bright sky, and stepping into a pristine, professional-looking lobby where an employee waited to greet me. They even showed me to the interview room, where I discovered it would be a group interview, myself and two other potential employees.

We entered a white, sort of board meeting-type room, with our future employer at the head of a table. We all took our seats on the side of the table to the boss’s left. The wall opposite us had at least three tall windows that spilled early noon light into the room. Each of us had a notepad and writing utensil on the table in front of us. Looking back, I noticed a few dream inconsistencies: the notepads changed to newspapers eventually, and as far as I could tell spelled out mainly nonsense, and we had Sharpies instead of normal pens, and one of the other interviewees turned into a friend from high school; all normal dream things. I remember the room overall as white with a hint of blue.

The interview began well. The head of the company talked about actual job requirements and all of them made perfect sense, even now that I’m not dreaming. This is strange for dreams because conversations usually make little contextual sense. And the whole situation seems unusually mundane, especially for me. Job interview? Seriously? The lack of stress, confusion, and things going wrong proves this was not dream reflecting on my personal anxiety/stress levels towards that particular situation. At least… not in the way it first seemed…

Being a dream, it took a turn for the strange. As part of the interview, we had to fight. I can’t remember who our opponent was specifically, but she was a woman in business dress and she was very good at what she did. My fellow interviewees took their turns first, in another room. Then it was my turn.

This room was darker, mostly wood paneled walls and floors, with obtrusively incandescent lights on 70s? style light fixtures. This part had me all worked up: sweat, adrenaline, hyped breaths, even a little bit of anxiety shakes. This lady attacked like a crazed drunk mugger; she held up this ceramic pitcher and smashed it against a piece of furniture pushed against the wall to give herself a jagged weapon. I remember this room overall as brown with deep gold.

I barely held my own against her. I got in a few good strikes, but I strove mainly to disarm and incapacitate her as quickly as possible. She got my left arm pretty good with her ceramic weapon, a gash just below the elbow crease. It stung like heck, but I worried more about not letting her gouge my eyes out. I finally got the broken pitcher away from her and the fight ended. Afterward, I apologized to her for my general lack of competence. I recall our exchange exactly.

The woman spoke to the other two in turn, asking them about their performance. My arm had almost stopped bleeding, but the skin was pretty inflamed, and somehow I got involved unfolding a napkin, intending to clean my arm up. I must have been a little preoccupied, because my friend next to me gave me a nudge and said, “Listen to her.”

The woman stopped in front of me, clearly waiting for an answer.

Me: “Sorry, it’s just… I don’t- I’ve found I don’t handle stress well under pressure.” *to myself, thinking of my potential job* I probably should not have said that…

Her: “Really? I thought you handled it well. Good work.”

Me: *uncertain* “Not that well. It’s happened before. In a sparring match, there was this girl-”

I stopped myself here, because something amazing happened. I realized I was telling the story wrong.

Me: “Whoops, I mean, I was sparring this guy in class, and he was way bigger than me, and I didn’t react very well because I was nervous, so I kinda got beat up.”

The woman smiled knowingly.

What.

In the dream, I recalled my actual life outside the dream, remembered my first time sparring a taekwondo buff in class as a noob and the result of it, and related it absolutely correct to a dream NPC.

WHAT.

When I eventually woke up, I was super disoriented. My arm felt strange, and I was surprised to find it lacking a bleeding slash. I was super aware of it the rest of the morning; I kept touching the place I thought should hurt, trying to wipe off blood. And all I could think about was how I remembered my actual sparring match and related it in the dream. Not once ever in any dream I’ve EVER dreamed have I been able to bring in my waking world life. If I’m not a different person entirely in dreams, the most I retain is martial arts and people and places I recognize. Dialogue? Meaningless and confusing.

So that is how I am 96% convinced I spent the night/early morning in an alternate reality.

***

Note: I did mention a dystopian subterranean society. This whole dream, from what I gather, took place in the future. A huge section of the world’s population had built a community deep underground years and years ago, very similar to the situation in Roderick Gordon’s Tunnels. The surface world tried to get them to return, but it ended badly. I remember only one scene with them: a little girl, about five or six, dressed in an earth-stained smock, standing at the entrance to the subterranean world, stretching her hands toward an overcast sky, absolutely enthralled as she experienced rain for the first time.

In some parts of the dream physics were kind of skewed, disproportional, and just plain weird. There was also a train that nearly ran me over and actually hit my elbow pretty hard, but since it was a three-foot-high train I doubt it would have mattered. Pff. Dream logic.

Pants Rant

Just a few days ago, I discovered that I can fit my Moto G phone into the front pocket of a pair of jeans I acquired secondhand. Barely fit.

This is the only pair of pants I own that fit the phone in the front pocket. Normally I carry it in my back pocket. Because these pants are quite a bit older, their pocket standards are somewhat different.

This got me thinking about pocket sizes of women’s jeans. It’s widely known that girl pants have pockets barely deep enough for quarters, let alone the phablet brick mobile devices that so many people use. I can’t even fit a credit card in my pockets. My guy friends sometimes made fun of my pockets and casually showed off their pockets by shoving in their arms up to the elbow.

There’s no question here: pocket inequality is a real thing.

Why?

I’ve realized it’s a marketing technique. With no pocket room for important things cash, cards, phones, and keys, women are forced to invest in a purse. Although many females see this as a pleasant and stylish accessory, it can get in the way. It’s one more thing to carry, one more thing to spend money on.

Plus, it makes hanging out with guy friends a little more awkward. They give you this look that says, “You’re bringing that?” Yes, I’m bringing that. I have no choice.

As I thought about all the inconveniences a purse causes, I had one final revelation. What’s one of the most common forms of petty thievery?

Purse-snatching.

Everything – keys to your house/car/all of the above, driver’s license, credit/debit cards, cash, checkbook, phone with all your personal accounts and information, and, in rare cases, social security card –  is in that purse, which dangles from your shoulder like a ripe identity fruit in the faces of muggers searching for an opportunity.

BY GIVING WOMEN WEENIE POCKETS, THEY ARE SETTING US UP FOR ROBBERY.

Stop the injustice. Deep pockets for all.

Thank you for listening.

The Social Experiment

(… and also a story or two. Bear with me.)

Hey yo. I’m back from a long moment of inactivity. Currently enjoying my graduatedness and starting off the summer with a huge graphic design project. 😀

But that’s not what we’re here to talk about.

Anyone who knows me well, or at all, knows that I’m shy. Quiet. Not outgoing. Somewhat introverted and antisocial. I prefer my own thoughts, and all my favorite pastimes are things I do alone: write, draw, and read. I also never really cared for everyone else’s opinions of me. I detest wearing makeup and girly clothes; I’ve worn a minimum of cover-up for my zits and shadowed eyes, and boxy t-shirts with jeans is pretty much my whole wardrobe. I cut my hair short and now I can’t even remember how many times I’ve been called “sir” or “bud.” The only time anybody ever sees me in a dress (well, until these last two years) is at church on Sundays. (In fact, here’s a funny story. During my sophomore year, I borrowed my cousin’s old prom dress to wear to Bennett Cup, a musical competition put on by my school that the participants dress up quite fancy for. I mentioned this to my friend who would also be competing, and she announced it loud in front of many of my guy friends, who looked genuinely shocked that I’d actually be wearing a dress, and a few of them even showed up that night just to see me wear a flipping dress.)

I know what everyone’s opinion of me was/is. I became a bit more aware of it since coming into high school. I’m unnoticed. I sit in the back, or the front, or wherever, and kind of get ignored. Too often people forget my existence and have some interesting conversations I was probably not meant to hear. I know all my peers like they’re my best friends, and none of them know a whit about me. (Unless we happened to be in the same ward. Ward friends don’t count here, k?) Sometimes, I would honestly try. I’d sit by these people I knew so well and try to have conversation. But I saw their expressions very clearly when they smiled and responded. Empty smiles. Pained. Forced. Eyes that didn’t shine. An expression that very clearly said, “Ah. I will appear friendly for this weirdo. I hope she loses interest soon so I can drop the act and get back to my real friends.” I noticed this more with the other girls my age. The guys would look down on me, appear vaguely interested, nod and make a comment of acknowledgement, then turn away. A good chunk of my grade, the ones I call “the smart people”, were people who held me in disregard. My real friends were the ones the smart people talked about behind their backs. The smart people were nice, but they were not my crowd. It was always weird when I got a “smart people” class, or went to a “smart people” gathering such as National Honors Society. I technically belonged to the smart people, but they did not recognize me as one of their own. They sometimes looked surprised to see me there, like “Oh yeah. I forgot she was so smart. I never really noticed her.”

I kind of gave up on these people. I endured them. I drew my awesome dragons quietly in the background. When I reached junior and senior year and found myself lumped into their classes of smart people, I stuck it out. Quietly. Don’t deny it! I know exactly what everyone’s opinion of me was.

I’m also a little afraid of boys. That may sound weird because my best friends have been boys since I was old enough to have friends, but here’s my argument. Because I like having guys as friends more than girls, I care more about making an impression on them that could form a friendship. I’m extremely shy when meeting new guys.

So when I turned sixteen, the magical “dating age,” I developed a terrible sense of dread. Because there are two formal dances a year: homecoming and prom. I wanted nothing to do with either, but as I had reached the magical dating age, every guy became a danger. When school started again after the summer, I kept my head waaaay down as homecoming approached.

Long story short, one of my guy friends took me to homecoming. Thankfully, I knew I was not popular enough to get asked to prom, and the same guy had a rule to not take a girl to a dance twice in a row. So I was safe for that year.

Senior year I went to homecoming again with someone else. Neither of these dates had actually been much of a surprise. I knew both of the guys quite well, and knew that both liked me well enough, both as a friend and otherwise. But then spring came. And the Prom Drama happened. And I am going to make you listen to the whole thing because it has a lot to do with the main point of this post.

The guy who asked me to homecoming the first time – we’ll call him TT because that’s his username in many places – has another friend who is a girl who he took to homecoming when I went with the other guy. We’ll call her Rylee because that’s her character’s name. TT planned to ask Rylee to prom. I planned to enjoy a night home on prom, probably go to work. March 15, the day of prom, also happened to be the day of my kenpo karate belt test, so I considered the day booked. One night, I was texting TT to help him think of creative ways to ask Rylee to prom. He jokingly asked, “If Rylee says no, will you be my backup plan?”

I responded with, “Heck no. I’m NOBODY’S back up plan.” Even though I really didn’t want to go to prom, the very thought was offensive.

He responded with, “I know it sounds bad, but that’s essentially what it will be. Will you?”

“NO.”

We proceeded to have the one-millionth conversation of reasons I hate prom: dress, makeup, dance. I hated these three things the very most out of everything in the world. And TT knew it. He knew it well.

I kind of forgot about the whole thing. Around here, nobody says no if they get asked to a dance. It’s just unheard of. He asked her with bacon roses.

But a few days later, I got a text from TT. “She said no :(”

“Aww sorry.”

“Have you thought about it?”

“I already told you, I really don’t want to go to prom. And I don’t want to be a backup plan.”

But he left the offer standing as he searched around for someone else to take.

There was nobody left. Those who hadn’t been asked yet were the few that mutually agreed with TT that their personality clash would cause them to hate each other by the end of the night.

I didn’t know what to do. He really wanted to go to the senior prom. By this point, I a little bit wanted to go because I learned it was going to be held at Castle Manor. Read that name and guess why I wanted to go. But the three reasons still screamed for attention. DRESS. MAKEUP. DANCE. EUGH.

I asked EVERYBODY for advice. Many of them were angry with TT for telling me I was his “backup plan.” Most discouraged saying yes.

But Castle Manor…

Plus I’d never get to find out what prom was like. I knew that nobody else would ask me, for reasons we’ve discussed. So I caved in, said fine, bought a frickin’ prom dress, and went to prom. Oh, that was a day to remember. I had to get someone to cover my shift at work. Then I had my belt test, which was super awesome. The next five hours were spent hemming the dress, which we hadn’t done professionally so it took extra long. And because I didn’t know how to makeup, my mom jumped between working on the dress and working on my face. I’ll admit it, we pulled out all the stops. All the makeup. Nail polish. Earrings. She even did my hair awesome.

Whoa. I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself.

We ended up being late because of the stupid dress, but that was okay. And when I looked at people, friends from school, church, people I’d known since first grade, they looked at me different. I saw it. The weird empty faces I’d received so many times before were full of life, friendly, and, more than once, a little awed. Unassuming, weirdo Pi had transformed. I liked how they looked at me. I liked what they said and how they said it. They acted like… my friends.

So after that weekend, I decided to try something. Could it be possible to get this reaction out of them every day? With some practice and pointers from my mom, I did my full makeup for school on Monday. Just the makeup. T-shirt and jeans stayed the same; they’re so practical. But all the makeup: cover-up, foundation, eyeshadow, mascara, cheek blush, lip gloss. Maybe if I didn’t look like eww… Thus began my Social Experiment.

It was gradual at first, but I noticed the change. I focused on noticing reactions from those in my English class, which consisted entirely of people I knew very well, but most I could not consider “friends.” Nobody I had ever hung out with, or ever hoped to.

From the girls: they genuinely talked to me. In group discussions or activities or projects, they included me like it was nothing. I could approach any of them at any given time and be greeted as a friend. They would talk about me too, and tell me they had done so. They’d smile and say hi between classes, at lunch, and even outside of school.

From the guys: well, this one was especially interesting. In my English class, the tables were arranged in a three-sided square with the open end at the front of the room. I purposefully sat one chair from the end on of the side tables, forcing some socialite to become separated from the herd. It did happen. I occasionally exchanged words with the lone socialite, but more often allowed him to commune with his friend over my head. By sitting in this spot, I accidentally immersed myself in the “guys’ side” of the room, where the majority of the male students sat. This was actually okay once I started wearing makeup. The guys were happy to talk to me, and even start conversations. I made friends with a few I never imagined being friends with. I distantly made friends with the guys on the other side room as well, through common interest and loudly voiced conversation. The point is, they wanted to talk to me.

The first time it happened, I was surprised and a little taken aback. I didn’t actually expect results, but they happened. Gradually, but they happened. I struggled to remember how to behave like a normal human in conversation, but they didn’t seem to notice. Then the end of school came and these new friends wrote huge paragraphs in my yearbook and wanted pictures at graduation. Shocker. Seriously.

I didn’t and don’t want to think that having a nice face is just as important as a great personality. All I changed was my face (and I left my bubble a little more often, but that hardly counts). My FACE. Not even my clothes. Same boxy t-shirts and worn jeans. People can go on and on how, “It’s what’s inside that counts,” but I have just proven that it absolutely takes both nice looks and nice attitude to make friends. I hate to admit it, but its unfortunately true.

If any of my friends read this, SURPRISE!!! I’ve been watching and analyzing all of you since March. 😀

And hey, a quick tag-on.

I consider everybody my friend. Most people I consider very, very distant friends. But hey, I’m so cool if some random kid decides to talk to me. It’s great. Because love to make new friends. Then I saw this filter through my facebook feed:

Sometimes people think we’re friends. And it makes me really wonder why. They come up to me and start a conversation or just message me or comment on my various posts and I congenially play along when really all I’m thinking is, “Why are you speaking to me.”

This really made me think. Is this how people see me? When I started my social experiment and made it a point to talk to people, which for me was huge because I don’t talk to people, is this what people thought of me? Was I actually making a bigger idiot of myself? Is this the world’s reaction to my existence? To wonder why I think it’s okay to be friendly?

I’ve rambled long enough. Think what you will.

Happle Pi

(Get it? Like happy/apple because Pi… nevermind.)

SO GUESS WHAT I DID.

I QUIT

I QUIT THE SYMPHONY.

AND.

I AM SO HAPPY.

GAH. SO HAPPY. YOU HAVE NO IDEA.

AND.

I EVEN PRACTICED.

AND INSTEAD.

I AM TAKING A DRAWING CLASS.

AND NOBODY LIKES THE TEACHER

EXCEPT FOR THE PEOPLE WHO ARE ACTUALLY IN THE CLASS

WHICH IS SEVEN PEOPLE.

AND HE’S ACTUALLY REALLY AWESOME.

AND HE LET ME INTO THE DRAWING II CLASS EVEN THOUGH I DON’T HAVE ANY PREREQUISITES BECAUSE HE SAW MY DIGITAL STUFF AND SAID I WAS EASILY GOOD ENOUGH.

GAH.

SO. HAPPY.

AND EVEN.

I PROBABLY WILL SWITCH TO A NEW PRIVATE TEACHER FOR VIOLIN.

HE IS ALSO AWESOME.

AND HAS SWORDS.

THE END.

Don’t Be Stupid

I dreamed about the zombie apocalypse last night. Which is weird even for me because 1) I’ve never dreamed of the zombie apocalypse before, and 2) I’ve only seen two zombie movies (World War Z and Warm Bodies) and it was not like either of them at all.

At work last month, my employer talked to us about the drunk guy that wandered into her house while she was watching “The Walking Dead.” Naturally, the girl I worked with that night and myself decided to psych ourselves out by imagining how a zombie apocalypse at the hospital would be. The employee parking lot happened to be the most likely place to get jumped by zombies, and we spent our whole break envisioning all the cliché scenarios we’d have to endure to get to our vehicles.

So of course, guess where my dream apocalypse took place. You guessed it, the hospital.

Except it looked nothing like the hospital. And I never actually saw any zombies that I can remember. I do remember being in a plain white-colored room filled with ordinary furniture. Some strangers were in the room with me, but in the dream I knew them.

Realizing that the zombies would be coming any minute, I constructed a barricade against the door using every piece of furniture. I am quite proud of that barricade, even now. That door wouldn’t open for a battering ram.

I turned away to find some weapons. When I turned back, my barrier was gone. Vanished. I looked to my companions in disbelief.

“Pff. We don’t need a barricade. There’s no way the zombies can get through that door,” one scoffed. My idiot companions had caused my indestructible barricade to disappear.

I tried to reconstruct the barricade using measly scraps and pieces, but they shoved me away and glared at me in a bothered sort of way.

Fine.

I don’t remember much of what happened after that, but I think it involved the stupids being eaten by zombies.

The moral of this story is, don’t be a stupid idiot (stupidiot XD) for heaven’s sakes.

Senioritis: Stage One

Let’s get all serious for a minute here.

This post isn’t a story. It’s not a dream I had or a random spazpost. It’s mainly a vent post. I have a sudden and serious need to rant about school. Look back: my first post was as a naive, 11-year-old sixth grader. Now I’m a 17-year-old senior in high school, and I’m ready to MOVE ON WITH MY LIFE ALREADY. Believe it or not.

Our school changed schedules for the fourth time in four years – the idiot school board can’t settle on anything that’s remotely good for the students – and they have settled for a seven period day, as opposed to the old eight period block schedule. Which means we lost an elective. Plus, we don’t have school on Fridays (haven’t since I started high school) which further detracts from our education. This year’s schedule seriously messed up my elective plans. Since they cut or moved most of the classes I was going to take this semester, I ended up with a bunch of empty slots. 😛 (<– THAT FACE SHOULD NOT BE SMILING. IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE DISGUSTED. *excessive drama*) Don’t worry, I found some online classes.

To get to the point: because of the schedule change, I considered dropping symphony to create more freedom in my schedule, since symphony is only offered 5th hour. But my violin teacher, who is also the symphony teacher, freaked out on me when I told her over the summer. To appease her, I said I’d try my best. Lo and behold, there were so many classes I couldn’t take once school rolled around that I wound up in the class. Jill –  the conductor – was appeased.

This year brought some changes to my life, though: I got a real job. I mean, I’ve spent the last few summers as my grandma’s housekeeper (8 bucks an hour; not bad, eh?) and I’ve been a private violin teacher since my sophomore year (now have 7 students, 6 of which come reliably). But those aren’t “real” jobs. I now am officially employed as a Dietary Aide at the hospital kitchen in my little tiny town. I get a “real” paycheck every other Thursday with “real” tax deductions, and I get to eat whatever I want.

ANYWAY. Between teaching violin Friday mornings, working at the hospital sporadically (it’s seriously just random days they assign me), and kenpo class Wednesday nights for my senior project, I figured I’d have a fairly busy year. And I though, “Hey. Life’s good right now. How about let’s not do Pit this year and spare ourselves all that grief and stress?” After all, I’d already appeased Jill by joining symphony. I even continued to take private lessons from her, instead of switching to the better guy in a different town not far from here.

Jill announced pit orchestra auditions for this year’s musical, “Shrek.” I was happily not going to even bother with them and told Jill so, until she freaked again. I had to join pit, there was no one else senior enough to lead the violins, etc., etc. I explained that because she had placed major rehearsals so inconveniently on Friday mornings from 8-10 when the majority of my students come for lessons, and because I wanted to make a good impression at my “real” job, it would be too difficult to join Pit as well. But she pleaded and prodded and argued so much that I finally said, “Fine. I’ll try out. BUT. We’ll see what happens then. Don’t take me for granted. I don’t want to move my students (they don’t want to be moved anyway) and I CANNOT take time of work. Got it?”

Oh yes, she got it.

I tried out, one of three violins who did. Naturally, she put all of us in.

I simply did not go to the first few Friday practices. I showed up at the band building at 8:00 am sharp, smiled at the other groggy pit members, then shut myself in a practice room with my students while the pit rehearsed. Jill gave me the evil eye each time. So I finally called my morning students and asked if they could move to a later time. As I predicted, most of them could not. So I went to half an hour of rehearsal last week, explained the situation to Jill, and taught students the rest of the time. I can’t leave the pit either now, because Jill claims that my freshman stand partner, the other first violinist, can’t hack it on her own. She’s a good player, she’s just a little shy and timid on her own. News flash: I WAS EXACTLY THE SAME WAY WHEN I WAS A FRESHMAN.

Which brings us to the next item: my sudden Senioritis.

The freshman practices. I, surprisingly, do not. I admit it. I haven’t truly practiced in weeks. (Jill wants me to try out for Allstate in just a few weeks. Ha. Doesn’t look like THAT’S going to happen. Like I’d have time for it anyway.) I feel pretty bad about it, actually. I want to play. I’m learning Praeludium and Allegro for District Solos and Bennett Cup this year, and I love that song and am super excited, only it’s really hard and I haven’t practiced. Also I promised a friend I would learn SenbonZakura on the violin, including the screaming high fast part, and play it for him this year, and I haven’t practiced that either. I have a great violin, and I can play, I’m just not motivated to.

That’s my Senioritis. I’m not going into music in college; I’m going to study graphic design. Currently, I see everything that doesn’t: a) earn money for me, b) increase my knowledge of and skills in graphic design and art, c) make me stronger, physically and otherwise, d) bring me scholarship opportunities, and e) One Piece, a complete waste of time. Unfortunately, practicing daily has not fallen under one of those categories. School, kenpo, work, teaching lessons, and pleasure art all do. If I have time left over, I watch One Piece. That hasn’t happened in awhile. 😦

So I want to drop symphony at the semester. I’m not playing Pomp and Circumstance at graduation anyway, I’ll be busy graduating. The only thing I’d really be sad to miss is the end of the year concert. Drop symphony and have another free period to do what I want. It’s really really tempting right now. Especially since the class is mainly freshmen who don’t actually care and we sound terrible. We’re playing a lot of songs from years past, mainly my freshman and sophomore years. We sounded great then and I loved symphony. Now it’s just painful to even go because we sound so awful playing those songs that only a year or two ago sounded amazing.

Sorry for the rant. It won’t happen again. This is just a sample of the things about our moron school that frustrate me.

Pokemon Adventures

I overdosed myself on epicness last night.

I was listening to Pirates of the Caribbean last night before falling asleep, and thinking about how it could go with battles my Pokemon Nuzlocke comic. And when I did fall asleep, this is the dream that occurred.

Pokemon existed in the real world, or maybe I was in Unova. One or the other. Anyway, at this one big house, there was a Sandile that lived by the front door. It looked just like a real animal. There were some other Pokemon (I think they were Lillipup and Woobat, but I don’t exactly remember) that the Sandile often played with.

Sometime that day, my friend and I were visiting the house. We walked outside just in time to see a bald guy grab two of the Pokemon and run. My friend and I, and the Sandile, chased after him.

As we began to get closer, I looked at the Sandile and asked, “Those Pokemon are your friends, aren’t they? Will you miss them?”

The Sandile nodded, and looked so sad that I picked him up like a kitten and carried the rest of the way. He felt like a big lizard.

We caught up to the thief in front of a little house nearly obscured by trees in the yard, in the middle of this nondescript little neighborhood. He stuffed the Pokemon in a big box and threw it into his sky blue van. I set the Sandile down and sprinted for the van. He started up the engine, but I grabbed the door handle and wrenched it open. He tried to get away by zooming out of the driveway, but I vaulted into the passenger seat.

The thief didn’t seem to care that I was there or that the door was open. He pulled out of the driveway and accelerated rapidly. I screamed at him to stop the van, but he refused. So I leaned over and began beating him up. I had to get those Pokemon back at any cost.

In the dream,  my logic was surprisingly unimpaired. I thought, If I can knock him out, I can take control of the van. But I’ll have to be careful, otherwise he might stomp on the gas when he gets knocked out. I remembered in the dream reading something that I read in real life, which talked about when people have seizures while driving. It said that their foot might hit the gas during a seizure, leading to a wreck.

Since I was in an awkward position to back-knuckle his temple, I settled for dragonhead fists. In real life, I probably would have killed the guy. Since it was just a dream, it took quite a few violent strikes to do anything. He got knocked out for a few seconds, but the rest of the time, he tried to fight me off while dodging the shopping carts that were magically appearing in the road. The last thing I remember from the dream was repeatedly punching him in the face and wondering if he was trying to kidnap me.