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  • chocolate triangle waffles

  • my hands on a man’s face, his eyes were shut

  • My mailbox at work had been moved over one, which threw me off, but I realized it had been done to make room for a box for the new guy, who was a cutie, so it was ok. The boxes were like on the back of stupid John Grisham’s stupid new novel. I stole change from people’s mailboxes. The new guy ran in, upset. I just want to go home and never go outside again. He’d been having a terrible day and then gone outside to have a car accident happen right in front of him. The girl’s green car had jumped the curb and smacked into another car and scared him to death. I agreed with the wanting to go back home part, and walked him inside, but it wasn’t the store, it was home. He was happy, jumpy, and wanted to talk about an article I hadn’t read, so he went upstairs to lie down while I read it. I couldn’t read, lay draped on the stairs thinking of him. My bra was black with sparkles.

    The bad men reappeared, sneaking through the house. I knew not to say anything. They saw me, I saw them – the code of fear/silence kept me still. They snuck away. He came back downstairs, except he was edebroux now. I was able to communicate everything to her with a single gesture. She grabbed a – something – and held it like a baseball bat, ready to attack. I hadn’t even thought about defending myself – I’d assumed they were just here to steal, not hurt us. The bookshelf next to me had candlesticks on it, but nothing heavy, nothing I could grip comfortably. I picked up a large kitchen spoon and waited.

    They came back, noisy now that they had found what they were after. They were bitter about it, sarcastic - the $8000 you stole from us! Oh, is that all, edebroux and I said to each other with our eyes, and lowered our weapons. The men left through the front door.

    Gillian Anderson/Helen Hunt followed the men out. Beautiful coiffed 40s hair. She was polite, flirtatious with the leader, who was crazy and said she “triggered” him. He wanted to kiss her and showed it by not being able to stop whistling. He already loved her deeply. George from Seinfeld’s parents were just getting home from vacation. They were coming in as the men were leaving. Who are all these people? still happy from their trip, trusting us to have had nice men over. The leader of the men grabbed George’s mother and slapped her on the ass and would not stop slapping, hooting. His focus safely removed from Gillian/Helen, I was relieved.

  • Where is Harris Teeter? Down this road. No it’s not. We walked down it for a while, turned around, got lost, finally found it after a long time of backtracking. They didn’t have any cinnamon bagels and I was pissed.

  • my hands on his same face again. We lay warm against each other. He was motionless, silent, but fully aware. I liked his eyebrows. I liked the curve into his temple. He would have let me touch him for a long time and not asked, not pushed; he would never have given me any reason to want to stop.

I dreamt that the devil was following me around. He drove a nice sports car and was very friendly. He was persistant without being too pushy. He just kept asking if I wanted to hang around with him seeing as I was already doing some of the things he wanted to do. I was cordial in return and just kept telling him that I was trying to quit.

A recurring dream: I'm back to work at my old college radio station, where I spent seven years of my life, on and off. Usually I'm just there (in the dreams) as a substitute jock, doing my good deed for the day by subbing.

This time, aside from it being a more vivid and a longer dream than usual, I had a permanent shift: Friday mornings from 11 AM to 1 PM. But I only had about ten minutes to prepare, so I ran to the record library (CD players weren't used much when I was last on the air, owing to the station's large amount of legacy vinyl), and tried to think of what to play. I was lost, though not as lost as in previous dreams; I wanted to play something by Graham Parker, but couldn't figure out where the beginning of the "P" section was.

I had a wide variety of items among the five or six LPs I grabbed; I planned to go back to the library to restock as the shift went on.

As I was putting the first record on the turntable, I noticed there was duct tape placed over the controls of the board, making things impossible. And some inspector person was leaving; apparently the station was being shut down for some reason. He and the station manager continued arguing about this, and the inspector was acting odd, like some released damn-the-medication mental patient.

The station manager decided to defy the shutdown; the duct tape was removed, and I was allowed to go on with my first shift. He took the microphone for a second to announce what was going on with the non-shutdown.

Another recurring motif in these dreams is my failure to queue up or even find the next song to play. This happened again (and again), but it was because I was being constantly distracted by well-wishers, welcoming me back. I asked somebody with a clue to grab the first Graham Parker record he could find in the library; might as well make use of all this help.

Things were still a little hectic, perhaps because of that weird inspector, or maybe just the normal busyness of daytime hours - my normal hours had been evenings and late nights, when often I had the place all to myself. So there were no PSAs to read, which annoyed me a bit, because I wanted to show off; I felt ready to read anything placed before me, and make it sound like I'd written it myself.

I noticed a noder's name on the schedule. Interesting.

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