The Santa hat

I had this dream a month ago but forgot to post it. I told my boss about this dream in real life and his reaction was, "Was she hot???"

I am visiting my childhood best friend, Christy, at her house, which is this depressing hovel of a place where she has several large put bulls running around. (This is the total opposite of how she lived when we were children.) She looks the same as always — incredibly thick, long blonde hair and a sweet round face. I can't believe she lives in such filth. The house is basically a shack with a dirt floor.

She tells me about how she's secretly sleeping with my boss, which is super juicy gossip. Then she shows me a video on her phone of a party they attended recently. My boss is sitting in a chair, completely wasted and wearing a Santa hat, and he's giving an impassioned soliloquy that's barely intelligible. Once he's done, he bolts out of the chair and out of the door and into the yard, where he runs smack into the mailbox and falls down.

'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.

Who wears short shorts?

I'm at work again. It's another sprawling, bustling place but this time more clearly an office or maybe a giant student library full of busy little bees.

I have chosen for some incredibly out-of-character reason to wear cute little plaid shorts to work. The problem is, my body is not the sort that can get away with wearing cute little plaid shorts. So as I am walking around the room, those babies are riding riding riding up, so far that they disappear beneath my shirt and it looks like I'm pantsless.

I see my boss across the way and I'm mortified.