dreams, revenge

Three lines of discussion in my sleep last night.

First dream, Buffy. It's been a long time since I've drop-kicked anyone in my dreams. Today, I'm three episodes from the end of Angel: Fred's sitting on the couch across from me, alive! and suddenly, inexplicably, dead, and I'm sitting there conversing with an alien head (not too pretty). Three subsequent shots: up close on the face, down the shaft of the neck, up to the (pretty gross, awfully bloody) stump of a neck. It was a pretty creepy dream.

Second dream, love and internships. I'm up late at my fantasy job (filing paperwork for Prometheus), talking to my not-so-fantastical boyfriend (J), who is trying once again to convince me that we should make out. It's late, I've got a long subway ride home. I go outside to get a breath of fresh air, and he's grilling pizza for me on the patio. I shrug, and eat a slice. We do not make out.

Third, the most surreal. I've made my way to the end of the New York waterway and discovered an empty pier: a remnant of the British navy, but no boats in the bay. I turn to go home, and realize that if I lift my arms, I can simulate Bernoulli's principle. I lift; I rise. In the back of my mind, I know all this has been preordained by the Obama administration. I'm four hundred feet up and rising fast. Unthinking, I retract my arms, curious as to how fast I'll fall.