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I'm at the grocery store with my wife, and we're arguing and doing our all too familiar juggle to try and fit our grocery purchases into our remaining money. So far, we've been to the checkout once only to find we don't have enough left in the bank to cover our selections. We're heading to another register with a lesser load and some creative means of paying for it, involving cash, a debit card, and a checkbook, when things start to get strange.

I see my dog trotting down the aisle toward us. I immediately realize she's gotten out of the car somehow, even though we never take her anywhere and leave her locked in the parking lot. I sigh, resigned to the need to drag her back out to the car without a leash, yet also eager to get away from the continuous financial argument, and manage to corral her before the store's staff does. Somehow I know this is important, getting ahold of her myself before they do. No idea why, perhaps I worry about the real origins of the meat in the butcher's domain.

So with dog under one arm, I head to the parking lot to return her to our car. To my surprise, all the car doors and the hatchback are open, and there's a swarm of young thugs all over it. Again, knowledge pops in my head: these are dangerous gang members. But I disregard that and wade in, going from dog-toting shopper to tire iron-wielding vigilante in three easy steps. Before I know it, I've scattered the gang; mysteriously, none of them carried guns, just tire irons and bats. All that remains is one, who I managed to disarm, and who receives the full force of all of my pent up rage. In short, I open up a good-sized keg of whoop-ass and let slip the dogs of war. I cry havoc and get medieval on his ass.

Then comes the jarring scene change. One moment I'm standing over the badly beaten and unconscious would-be car thief, then I'm back at Chez Corwin, my too-small rent house. At my desk, I read on E2 that another noder had his car broken into that day while grocery shopping, and was concerned that the perpetrators now knew where he lived. Not knowing what personal papers might be missing from my own car, it suddenly seemed to me to be a good idea to spend the night sitting out in it, keeping a watchful eye out. As I head outside to follow through with my plan, I notice that the neighbor's pickup, a monstrous 4-wheel drive number exactly like the one we traded in to get our little station wagon, has several people hanging out in its bed. I know instinctively that they are all noders, that my next door neighbor is actually the guy whose car was broken into. I'm not feeling terribly social, and I haven't the faintest idea what any of their names (real or user) might be, so I climb in my car to wait.

With another jumbled transition, I'm waking up in the back of the car and my wife is sleeping there beside me. I'm about to accept this as I have all the other odd happenings, but then I wonder: if my wife is out here, who's inside in case our daughter wakes up? I spring from the car, not even pausing to wake my wife, and run to the front door. The house is suddenly much larger than I remember, and I can't seem to move faster than a slow walk as I head for my daughter's bedroom. Everything is silent, but not in a peaceful way, as I move down the hall. It seems miles long, letting the concern inside of me grow and blossom into abject terror. Finally I reach her door and extend an arm to push it open, terrified of what I'm about to find...


And snapped awake. As soon as I was reasonably sure I wasn't in a dream within a dream sequence out of An American Werewolf in London, I jumpped up and rushed to my daughter's room. She was fine, sleeping contentedly, peacefully. I tucked her covers back in around her, and head out to smoke and calm my frayed nerves. The little moments of terror are all part of parenting, I suppose.

I've never dreamlogged before, but I thought since I needed to get up and clear my head before trying more sleep, and since this is the first time E2 has figured prominently in my dreams, why not. Hope this jumbled collection of rambling images makes more sense to you than it does to me.

Last night I dreamed I was living in the house of my childhood. My parents moved around a lot, but this house I remember very well, with fondness. It had character. The floor was uneven. I was living there with 20 or so of my friends, not all of them close friends, we had a sort of commune set up. No farming. I vaguely remember a lot of situations happening, like episodes of a sitcom. None of them seem important now.

I remember quite distinctly we all made gigantic lego sculptures outside, we had infinite legos and it seems were limited only by imagination. My subconscious, it seems, is not without an imagination. We put colored christmas lights everywhere. I remember stumbling around outside and seeing giant lego sculptures lit up in strange colors, everywhere. Also, everyone was eating quite a lot of acid.

The truly strange part, though, for me, was that near the end I realized, I'm in America! (Currently I am teaching english in China) I thought I had probably come home for some holiday, but I know I don't have a multiple-entry visa so I thought 'Damn, that's it, I can't go back to China.' Plus I used my return ticket. For some reason I had forgotten about my job contract and had just left.

But this didn't seem right. I stared at all the lit-up legos and realized I must really still be in China. I must be dreaming. Just to be sure (I was quite afraid about breaking my contract, I really enjoy teaching and don't want to leave yet) I woke up. I think that was as close to a lucid dream as I've ever had.

He lived on an island with his pet canary. He wanted to see how big it was, so he took pictures of its empty cage.


The deleted wu starts off as a suspenseful tale involving vegetables (as the characters, not the subject matter), then turns into vegetable-themed advice on noding. An editor has nuked it and posted a wu explaining in great detail why they thought it was lame, going so far as to include the whole of the original write-up.


I walk into the airport and hand my passport over to the passport control guys. We chat.

"No, I thought you collected them..."

I continue on to the metal detector; the officers there let me through. As I'm walking, I see a large butcher knife. I grab it and head back towards the metal detectors, holding the knife to one side so the security people can't see it.

In the restaurant that has appeared on the other side, I find a lady who has an even bigger knife, for some food-related purpose.

"Were you aware," I challenge, "that there's a giant knife here?"

She nods and looks expectant. I had been planning to point out that I had walked straight through security with it but decided this would be more trouble than it was worth. I leave the knife on a couch, make a "that's all" sign, and head back once again.

Now there's a security man in a bizarre yellow spinning-walking vehicle. A family passes through one of the two metal detectors. One of the children sets it off. "Hey!" says the officer, but he can't do anything, trapped as he is in his contraption. I pass through the second detector, and set it off. I wait for the officer to come search me, pleased to be so much more considerate than the boy.

The spinning vehicle crashes into a metal arm that had been loading baggage into my plane. My flightmates and I hope our backpacks have already got on board.

As we rush to the plane the door is already closing. We start banging on it.

"Rutabaga! Rutabaga!" I yell.

Someone else in the crowd completes the chant: "Cheese! Cheese! Cheese!"

This chant, I think by way of self-narration, is well-known to all viewers of Veggie Tales.

And we all stand there yelling "Rutabaga, rutabaga, cheese cheese cheese!" until they open the door.


thanks to caknuck for correcting my spelling :)
I was sitting in an underlit and undersized kitchen with a number of people I knew from high school, although none of their faces were identifiable at the time (save for Ruy, a football teammate of mine). We were making small talk, when someone mentioned the name of someone with whom I was vaguely acquainted...Fabio. (No, not that Fabio, just an Italian guy who attended my high school.)

"Fabio's a fucking asshole," I said brazenly. Fabio was small, almost too pretty for a "tough guy" (think a young Johnny Depp, but with a ponytail). Word has it he dropped out and went to hairdressing school. But Fabio, for all of his girlish charms, happened to be a member of the local Portugese/Greek/Jamaican gang, the WEB.

The collective shock of the room surprised me, at least until I realized that I was standing next to two of his fellow gang members.

"My friends (still without faces) and I piled into cars and raced away, with the WEB in hot pursuit. We ripped around the city, deathly afraid for our lives. The streets seemed vaguely familiar, but they weren't those of my native Winnipeg. In retrospect, they reminded me more of Montreal than anywhere else.

Eventually, the chase led us to an old brick building in an industrial district; an abandoned warehouse or office building perhaps. We hurtled though corridors in an effort to lose our pursuers, ducking into unmarked doorways and climbing staircases imported in from the set of "Enemy at the Gates".

Our group had been split when we piled into our cars, and I was with four other friends. There were two blonde girls that, though unfamiliar, I knew in me dream. I had feelings for the prettier of the two, who was dating a faceless guy from our group. Even though I knew I should be chasing the other, more bookish blonde (who had a crush on me), I still lusted after her prettier, attached counterpart. The fifth member of our party was Enzo, another classmate and a friend from the football team.

The five of us fled the building to make a run for our SUV, but we were stopped halfway there by the WEB guys. A truce was struck, and nervous apologies were made. We were given assurances that we (and our other friends, presumably still being chased) would be safe.

With evident relief, we walked the rest of the way back to our ride, pausing to get our collective breath near the back of the truck. At that moment, the tailgate popped open, and a WEB member with a .45 gunned down the pretty girl and her boyfriend.

I hardly ever remember my dreams, but I remembered another one today. I woke up at ten o'clock to my boyfriend's soft, gentle fingers running through my hair, apparently trying to console me.

It wasn't a nightmare. But then again, it wasn't a good dream either, not as good of a dream as my last dream about practically killing my roommate. I remember that for some reason I was out on a date with a blonde guy. He looked like Brian, a man that I used to work with. No, not on a date, I was "with" this guy, and we were just hanging out. He looked like Brian, but I felt for him like I do for my present boyfriend, and other than the "fact" that in the dream he had worked with me, he acted like my present boyfriend. But I was still 18, and yet we were in my old house in Kalamazoo, Michigan, which I haven't seen in years and haven't lived in for perhaps five years. Then my ex of 2 years, Tony, called me. He wanted to take me on his jet to Chicago for the evening, take me to dinner and a show. It would only take fifty five minutes (odd what details you remember in a dream, isn't it?). So I was going to go, but then this guy Mike York who I met in an Applebee's and who flirted with me for weeks before we met at a bar somewhere apparently called me or came over or something. We all three went down the street to what was my elementary school, but somehow while we were in it it was a jazz bar, dark and mellow. Then we were outside, playing on the swing set. I remembered: Tony! I don't even understand why I wanted to go with him, seeing how it would in reality be incredibly awkward. But it was a dream, and who knows what logic applies in dreams?

   So, I start walking home with this Brian/Brett creature and Mr. York, and we're laughing and having a good time. I'd had the equivalent of 3 shots of something, and was having fun, until they started singing this song. Apparently, at work, which is Commercial Federal Bank back in Omaha, my co-workers had been making fun of me while I was on a leave of absence, calling me a slut and what-not, including making up this song. It was even included in the minutes for the last meeting, and in the departmental newspaper. I got really upset and started crying and went to run into the house. My parents were sitting on the porch. My mom, scoldingly, asked me what was wrong. I told her because she usually asks lovingly and I thought she would be understanding. But she wasn't. "I haven't heard such rumors. Where do these rumors come from? Where!? You're a slut, Meredith, and you'll always be a slut! Show me the proof of this; I'll bet they're just singing it because you fucked them both. You probably deserve it."

Needless to say, that made me cry more. Cry so hard I was screaming through the sobs and the gasps of breath. Then I remembered Tony again. I called him, and he was not too upset. So he came with his jet to the back of the house and I started to get up into it. But I'm still somewhat afraid of Tony. So I must've been wimpering, because that's when Brett, in reality, started to caress my face, neck and head with his fingers, running them through my hair. I wake up and look at him.

The worse part... Later in the morning, while we were getting ready to go and eat, Brett looks at me and I see Tony. Just for a split-second. It's amazing, because they look nothing alike, not even ethnically. (Brett is an American with direct German ancestory, whereas Tony is pure-blooded Sicilian.) I hope that never happens again, the dream or the trick of the eye.

This dream has become more frequently recurring, its slightly worrying. I'll keep it brief:

I'm in a submarine, the water pressure builds up until the windows etc cave in and the sub is destroyed, as are all the people on it; except me. I then swim around with the bizzare ability of sub-aqua respiration getting more and more disorientated and scared until i wake up in the morning sweating like a peadophile in a playground. Strange.

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