No — not the camera!!

I am taking a picture of my grandmother and noticing that the autofocus is being a little bitchy. So I switch to manual and zoom in and try to focus on her face. But it still looks blurry and weird. As soon as I press the shutter, I hear this sickening metallic pop — like a spring has exploded inside a small tin can — and I look down to see that my beloved camera has blown out like a popcorn bag — its sides bulging and revealing the parts inside that should stay hidden.

I wince and cradle the thing to the ground, taking special care — and instructing everyone around me eager to get all grabby with the trainwreck of a camera — to not touch the sensor, as if it's even remotely salvageable.

The sight of my camera in such a state launches me into guilty panic mode. Panic because I LOVE THIS CAMERA and guilt because I feel like I probably did something stupid to cause its implosion. My dad is there and, being the one who financed the thing to begin with, he instantly (and this is not what Real World Dad would have done) gets gruff and makes it clear that I'm on my own when it comes to paying for the repairs.

My mind spins as I realize there is no way I can afford a new camera or even the repairs on this one (as if it can be repaired). Phil and I run around some asphalt parking lot between strip-mall stores and restaurants, looking for my car so we can track down the paperwork that came with the camera. I realize with a sick feeling in my gut that I never filled out the warranty card. So I run around with a bleak vision of the apocalypse in my head. I flit past a table of sorority girls in some restaurant and dump water on them. And again when I pass back by. One of them follows me and pours water on me. So I respond (sillily) by tossing my glass of red wine on her velour sweatsuit-clad ass.

None of those things brought my camera back, though. Only forcing myself to wake up ended my terror.