I SAID DO NOT TOUCH MY SCREEN

Last night I dreamed that CA columnist Geoff Calkins walked up to my computer to tell me something, and leaned over, and put his finger on the screen (just underneath the sign that says, "This screen with eat your fingers if you touch it") and rubbed it vigorously, the pixels swirling and going mad, as if to taunt me.

I screeched and smacked him in the face, which he didn't like very much.

Lightning crashes

The great thing about not being able to sleep soundly is that you have a shit ton of dreams in one night. Or, well, I do.

So on my second round of trying to sleep in the wee hours this morning, I dreamed that my family and I were at Wal-Mart, outside in the parking lot. A storm rolls in and rains so heavily that Wal-Mart has decided to close. These huge chainlink fences slide closed around the store, locking everyone out. I pull out my Blackberry and try to photograph the action and send it to Twitpic and Flickr. (Yes, I know.) We get inside our vehicle to wait out the storm and lightning flashes around us. I realize that the lightning is actually hitting vehicles in the parking lot when I see these creepy trails of smoke leading from the ground to the sky, which is seemingly churning with anger now.

I see lightning strike a truck a few rows over, and then another vehicle closer to us. There's a slight flash of light near the ground right before the lightning bolt hits its target. I assume that at any moment, our car is going to be smote. I decide we've got to get out of there.

And get out of there we do. We're driving through a corn field, the storm still raging around us. We're following my dad, I think, and I keep wondering where mom is. My sister tells me she's behind us, and I can tell by the tone in her voice that she's doing something my sister disapproves of. The corn field, I notice, is faded and withered, which means it must be October.

Choose your own adventure

There was a scene in Mad Men last night that I was sure was going to play out like so: Man falls asleep on couch, man opens his eyes and is suddenly dreaming, man stands up and things happen that the audience understands are dream things, etc., man wakes up. Except it didn't pan out that way; man woke up. But it's a common scenario in movies and television — the falling asleep and dreaming that one is in that sleep position, "waking", and then doing dream stuff. I thought to myself, that doesn't really ever happen to me, self. I never really fall asleep in my bed and then start dreaming that I am in my bed as a starting point for a dream.

Which means, of course, that that kind of happened in my dream last night. Kind of.

Last night in real life, I left my friends D and A's apartment and drove home, like, half a block away.

Last night in dream life, I had a few false starts from D and A's apartment, trying to get home.

During the first one, I was in my car and completely, completely drunk. I couldn't find my way out of the parking lot so I turned around and took some convoluted alternate route and ended up driving over a median and puttering out into the street, unsure if traffic was coming or not. I think I made it home.

Scenario No. 2 had me stumbling out into the parking lot with friends Ay and B, and B lagging behind because he had found something electronic blinking in the grass. He realized it was my Blackberry and handed it to me. I'm grateful, of course, because clearly I dropped it and would have left it behind forever and ever. And then I realize that I must have dropped it hours ago, because it's busted as hell — keys missing, panels warped, screen cracked, not functional at all. I instantly start freaking out because I don't have insurance on it and even if I did, would it cover stupid drunken mishaps like dropping it in a parking lot and people running over it with their cars? Doubtful.

Scenario No. 3 has me leaving D and A's place and getting on some kind of shuttle full of bona fide creepy freaks. I'm sitting in the back of a standard van — two people up front, three in the middle row, and then me and someone else in the back. The driver looks in his rearview mirror straight at me and saying, "Hey, baby, where you headed?" and other barely masked innuendos. He goes on and on and I try to stand strong and silent and wait for my stop. The person sitting beside him turns to look at me and I see what I can only describe as a Satanic nose, pierced by a huge, tribal-looking nosering. The van finally stops at McLean and Poplar and I get out and try to walk quickly across the parking lot of the strip mall there, but the driver of the van is walking briskly to catch up with me. Ay and B are walking close behind and B wants to know what's wrong, so I start yelling at the van driver, who is some skanky old dude with long blonde hair, "You can't just look at a girl like that and say 'Hey, baby, where you heded?" It's creepy!" B's all, "What!? Yeah, man, you can't do shit like that!" I'm screaming at the skanky dude and B and Ay try to console me as I break down into tears.

I don't know if I ever got home.

When in China

I am visiting Fritz at Fuckleberry Hound's place, except that they're in a house and not an apartment, and they're in China, not Harlem. The place is really quite spiffy and Fritz and I can't stop gushing over how nice it is. He shows me where he does yoga in the bathroom and I swoon; the bathroom is huge and his yoga mat is a big blue comfy looking thing. I imagine him meditating there on the bathroom floor and instantly want to do yoga again.

Moving

I am in a new apartment, one that's quite roomier than my current home, but one that's still strewn with moving materials and my usual packrattery. I walk around and look at the place with some confusion; I vaguely remember my ex helping me move into the place, and I feel guilty about having asked him to do so. But mostly I can't remember how I picked this place, or why. It's sufficient enough, and I'm digging the roomier bedroom, but as I walk outside onto the stoop, I see some things lining the stairs that I know are not mine, and that would seem to have belonged to a previous tenant.

There's an owl figurine, and some kind of dusty flowerpot. I get the distinct feeling — the fear — that the woman who lived here before me (I can feel that it's a woman) must have died in the apartment. I wonder how she died. And why I got to move in so quickly.

I am suddenly struck with another fear — how easy is this place to break into? I peer into the bedroom window and see my bed, and wonder who else could have been watching. I don't feel unsafe, necessarily, but I also feel like I might be at risk. Especially since I have no idea where these apartments are located and their reputation for safety. They seem nice enough, but looks can always deceive...

Then I remember my old apartment and can't recall ever giving my building manager any notice that I was going to be moving out. I imagine him and his wife walking into my empty, echoing living room and wondering where I've rudely run off to.

Good aim

I'm at a gun range with a friend of mine. Said friend has taken me to a gun range before in real life where I performed rather poorly.

This time, I'm hitting the high point areas of the target repeatedly. I'm shooting through some of the same holes, enlarging the rip in the paper, with a very sleek .45. My friend is thoroughly impressed.

He offers at one point to help me with some of my aiming. I take another few shots that hit the target in close to the same spot every time. There's a gaping hole to the left side showing I don't need any help.

"Nah," I reply. "I think I'm doing just fine." I grin and empty the clip.

I think I already know what's going on with this dream. I had been wondering for the past few days if I should trust my instincts on my evaluation of this friend or consider that maybe I've misjudged him. My subconscious apparently thinks I'm right on target.