So I had a weird dream last night.
I and one of my work colleagues (a colleague so profoundly implausible as to generate laughter upon waking) were going to buy illegal substances. We drove through typically weird twisted-by-dream connecticut woods to a house somewhere in a profoundly suburban neighborhood, and went in. A little girl, six or seven, with braids, ran ahead of us into the living room when we entered the kitchen. There was a couple carefully packing up our order, which was absurdly large (six or seven pounds), and the woman of the couple looked like an aged version of the daughter. The man was a gentleman from the synagogue in town, who is definitely not married to the woman in real life, and who did not have the girl as a daughter in real life either. The man’s real son was nowhere in evidence, either. Are you confused yet?
We tried to explain that we didn’t want six or seven pounds of pot — that this was an inconveniently large amount for us, and for what we wanted. They only sold it in six pound bags. We tried to talk them down to an eighth of an ounce. No dice. I asked if they were feds. They said no, we’re state police, but we’re crooked so we won’t turn you in. This was decidedly not comforting. We pointed out that there was no way we could buy this much without distributing, if we got busted. They suggested that we distribute it to a number of people, by name: the list was extremely humorous, containing many people who might actually want it and and least four who would turn us in for even suggesting they wanted it. My colleague handed me a wad of cash, and I started counting it out for the couple onto a formica countertop between the sink and the refrigerator, which I told them was bad feng shui. Sure enough, the $20 bills started morphing into $5 and $1 bills. They asked if we would like free filter papers with our order. We told them no. How about a coffee pot? We argued with them, no we did not want that, did they want us to be busted? We wound up leaving without buying anything.
Then I woke up.
Then I started laughing at the thought of this colleague helping me buy that much stuff.
[…] A Weird Dream: For a long time, I kept a dream diary. I’d write down my dreams, no matter how ridiculous. It was part of a larger effort to understand what was going on in my subconscious. We deliberately tell children that their (sleeping) dreams aren’t important, while encouraging them to develop (waking) dreams into reality. It’s a little silly. Dreams are where the subconscious processes and delves into the understanding of the conscious mind’s working, and if you don’t keep track of your unconscious mind’s dreams, how will you really understand what the conscious mind wants? […]