Nnnnnnnnnnnnggghhh

So I'm lying in bed dreaming about being at summer camp, in Italy. And this is a very involved dream, featuring people from highschool that I haven't thought about in ages, and lots of bizarre statuary, and some shopping for clothes. Then the dream turns ugly. We all file into a plane that takes us up above a depressingly Dallas-like city and flies its way around a few buildings before heading down through a subway entrance and crashing into a store filled with Hello Kitty merchandise. I pass out and come to in an airport, my body aching but otherwise unhurt. Next to me are the kids I went to camp with, lying on the floor in various states of injury, and outside the window is the plane we were on. Other than being charred black it appears, as we do, remarkably whole. Nonetheless I put up a bit of fight when the camp counselor tells me that we'll be getting back on it to go home. I ask her if that's safe. She says it is. I ask her if anyone died in the crash. She says yes. One of my friends tells me the name of the dead camper, and I don't recognize it. We get back on the plane.

This time we fly over fields and forests - pre-industrialization - and it reminds me of the American civil war. I tell this to the people sitting beside me, Jade H. and Haley from high school, and they nod nervously. I tell them we should talk, to keep from feeling nervous, but we keep getting distracted by the flight. The plane goes under a railroad bridge and narrowly misses hitting the supports. I look at Jade and Haley and their faces are sweating. Haley's eyes are closed now. The plane flies very low and very fast over a field covered in telephone poles. The poles aren't connected to anything. It's like a forest but it isn't beautiful. The plane flies down among them and we watch the wing clip off. Then there's heat and pain, but I pass out again.

I don't know if I've ever passed out in a dream before.

I come to, but this time it takes longer, and it hurts more. My head is hurt. I think I have a concussion. My shoulder is dislocated. I'm lying on a road next to a wood, and the camp counsoler is standing over me. She tells me to get back on the plane. I look across the road at a field were the plane lies, partially on fire and still recognizable as a plane but only just.

"It can still fly", she tells me.

In the field I see bodies, people I know, and on the road I see others standing and not knowing where to limp. The camp counselor has a whip, I notice. A whip? She tells me to get back on the plane, now. She's clearly trying to kill us. I don't know why this didn't occur to me before. I turn and run towards the wood, shouting for others to do the same. I'm thinking we can hide. But as I run, looking back over my dislocated shoulder, I realize that there are trucks, freight trucks all along the road , and men are climbing from the back of them with rifles.

They remind me of police, but they take orders from the woman with the whip. I run through the woods and I hear gunshots. There are kids from camp running ahead of me and I see them tackled by men with nets. I hear the woman with the whip shouting something about getting pliers and branding irons from the truck. So they're going to torture us. Somehow I'm still running. I keep hoping for somewhere to hide but the trees, I realize, are thinning out. And then I come to a high wall, the end of the level. There are others with me, two or three. And we try to hide behind each other as the men come. I'm dizzy from my concussion and I wish I could pass out again. There's a deep hole in the ground in front of us, and I think I'm going to fall in.

And then, by something like sheer force of will, my dream turns. There's a truck parked in the woods that wasn't there before, a dusty pick-up, and I climb in the back. One of my campmates finds the key in the ignition. We drive through the trees as fast as possible. Men chase us on foot. As we turn onto the road, the woman with the whip leaps onto the back of the truck and I push her off. But she could follow us in the freight trucks, couldn't she? So our pickup becomes a helicopter. We fly up and leave her behind. We fly over a mountain and I worry about fuel. Then we land next to an Italian Starbucks and go in to purchase phone cards.

Right. Fumbing at the till for change, and trying to remember my first-year Italian, the dream ends. I wake up in bed. The sheets are sweaty. I look at the clock and it's 12:30pm. On Friday. Which means I'm two hours late for work. My alarm didn't go off? It went off and I didn't hear it? And on my voicemail there's a worried message from Shannon, wondering where I am. I slept through the phone ringing. I slept through work.

WHAT. THE FUCK. I'm so mad. I've really pissed myself off. I keep telling myself how much I hate me, but I don't think I'm getting through to myself. How does this HAPPEN? I phoned Scott and he was very nice about it. I'm going to work tonight at six, so that he and Shannon can go out for dinner or something. So that maybe I can not feel like such a daft, irresponisble jerk. Maybe.

I want to blame the dream. I really do. It was THE DREAM what made me such a fucknob, yeah. But the dream comes right back with all that interesting symbolism of telephone poles and phone cards and EVERYTHING COMING CRASHING DOWN IN FLAMING RUIN. Because the dream was one up on me. The dream knew the phone was ringing at 11:30pm and I just slept through it and the dream shrugged its shoulders and went "Alright, then here's a woman with a whip".

FUCK. KNOB. ME. DUMB. ASS. IDIOT. DREAMING PERSON.

Yeah. Breakfast time.