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I don’t dream much – my sleep cycle has somehow gone kerflooey in the past few years – but when I do it’s usually pretty strange, and the kind of thing that would give a Freudian want to steeple their fingers and think of about ten case-study papers they could write about me.

Like last night – when I dreamed I was somehow back working as a stage manager; only this time it was for a puppet show.  (Note: I have never in my life been a stage manager for a puppet show.  Dance, yes; quasi-opera caberets, yes; standup comedy, yes.  Puppets?  Never.)  The only thing was, there had been no rehearsals, I had never been issued a script, and two patrons insisted on sitting in the booth so the crew had to all decamp to a storage closet.  The people from the audience even complained to me that they couldn’t see the show from where they were sitting.

And on top of that, in the middle of the setting-up-the-show chaos, I also dreamed that I saw Mr. Shrimp Grits walk into the room.  I haven’t heard from him in months, but I dreamed that I walked over to him and joyfully kissed him, and after several seconds of making out, I pulled away – only to see that it was very confused stranger.  To whom I dreamed that I apologized profusely and then returned to setting up the show.

If you are a dream analyst – or 40’s-ish guy named Grant – gimme a call, we may have things to discuss.


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