Crazy dreams, vol. 298,211

It’s cliché to say my dreams have gotten super insane these past several weeks, but damn if it ain’t so. Last night’s mind movie was of me going to the restroom and noticing a man in a white coat and dark fedora trailing me. Turns out he was an undercover agent of sorts and he tracked me long enough to get a warrant for my arrest (?). When I passed back by some office door on my way back to my desk, I was pulled inside and told I was under arrest, then given the third degree about my job performance and my tendency to bitch about the things that were always going wrong. (Guilty conscience much?) I started trying to defend myself first by saying no one had read me my rights and then by appealing to the people around me to back up my claims that some things in the workplace were seriously fucked up. Slam was there and he totally threw me under the bus by saying that I just complained too much. Heh. I was crying and humiliated. The lady (who looked like a knockoff of Elizabeth Banks) told me that during my shift the next day, I would be expected to write 30 reasons why I loved my job. Or else. I quit on the spot and then walked along the interstate in the rain to the airport. The “Florida” airport. The whole time I wailed on the phone to Ray that I had lost my job. I had an understanding that it was a particularly bad time to be unemployed, what with a baby coming and a mortgage and all. I woke up feeling insane with anxiety. Oh, and urine. Insane with urine.