I replied to someone in an E-mail that she didn’t have to buy me a food dehydrator for $30 as a housewarming gift. She could just keep it.

My mother decorated my basement for me to “surprise” me, thus completely ruining any plans I had for the basement. I went downstairs and she had carpeted the walls and floor in berber, then handpainted bees, robots, and some Sid & Marty Krofft-lookin’ characters. It was interesting, and somewhat okay, but still entirely wrong.

My “father” (not really my dad, but perhaps my TV dad or something) was psychic and he told me that Amy (my long-dead Siamese cat from childhood) was going to die during a performance of Cyndi Lauper’s “She-Bop.” He wouldn’t be with me; he’d be in Los Angeles. Also, three guys I knew (I don’t know which three guys) would go to jail shortly afterwards. Dad and I were watching a musical variety show from the ’80s and “She-Bop” came on. I started crying hysterically, clinging to my father, remembering that he was supposed to be in LA when my cat died, so she was therefore still alive. I still was inconsolable. It happened to be a twenty-minute long performance too. When it was over, my dad and I were no longer on a couch, but in a classroom. The three guys had sawn a yellow music-room-style chair in half. I watched to see if they’d go to jail for it, thus fulfilling two parts of my father’s prophecy. They didn’t get in trouble at all, so I had to assume my cat was still okay.

I actually had a dream that didn’t involve my job or prospective living quarters. I had to be in one of two rooms: either a small auditorium showing Cat on a Hot Tin Roof or a small auditorium showing A Streetcar Named Desire. I picked the Streetcar room just because I knew the dialogue better. Oh, and there was an amorous male in the Cat room I wanted to avoid.