27 January 2006 - eleven o'clock am

For the intimately challenged, the dream of this early morning (between whackings of the "snooze" button) is a forbidding portent:

While I don't remember the leading up details, something to do with my interviewing an important person of some sort, who could be said in some way to resemble Adrian Brody, only less attractive, with dusty auburn hair and freckles. I do recall pausing in a bathroom and noticing my reflection. I looked really nice; the brassy bits of hair I've bleached were properly platinum, and the remnants of the black dye which has resisted bleaching, instead of being a dark brown color, were bright turqoise. The fringe in back, which I've been meaning to shave, was colored pink. And I was about 70 pounds thinner, although I wouldn't have picked the fitted sleevless white-and-blue striped shirt and faded jeans. So I was just getting really cozy with my interviewee, in fact, cozy enough to hesitate, before saying, "what the hell", and snuggling into his arms, when the scenario shifted and my role went from participant to observer. There were two white horses with golden manes. One horse was lame, and was buried in a pile of autumn leaves. The other was trying to jump a fence. It pierced its shoulder on the fence, and began to rear and kick, blood streaming down its flank. As it did so, it landed on the lame horse, injuring both itself and the other even further.

Note to self: avoid red-haired men resembling Adrian Brody.