'Sell your waking life for minimum wage, but now they get your dreams for free'

At work again.

Large area with many people working at very informal terminals. My BOSS boss is there and he seems to sense something is going on in Jackson, one of the cities whose newspaper we lay out. He goes into a Very Important Meeting and finds out that the editor there has gathered his people to announce that one of their writers hanged himself. Everyone is aghast. My dream self imagines that guy's column sig and how we just put it on a page recently.


I am stressing out. The sun has come up and I am still at work, trying to get away, get out the door, go the fuck home. It's not our real-life office but some kind of posh suburban setting that's more like a sprawling Colonial-accented ranch-style house with a meticulously manicured lawn. People keep coming to me, needing me to help them put out fires. I'm exhausted and exasperated. I can feel the cool, damp morning air settle in on my skin and clothes from the previous day and it's making me feel bottom-of-the-barrel awful.

My boss comes in, apparently straight from the bar across the street. I can't tell he's drunk until he announces he is and then starts acting completely crazy. He doesn't look like himself — dream boss is more squat and burly than real boss. He does something to a chair near me — grabs it and shakes it, maybe? — that is the final straw. I explode and leave.

When I finally get outside, I freak out because I can't find my car. Then I remember that that's because I carpooled in a bus to work from the location where my car was actually parked.

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