I'm pretty sure my subconscious is trying to tell me something. The question is, what?
So. Last night I had the following dream (to which I attribute the fact that I woke as tired as when I went to bed):
At some point, I found at a library I do not usually frequent a copy of Jane of Lantern Hill by L.M. Montgomery which was in much better condition than the one at "my" library. I recall being temporarily unable to recall whether it was or was not a romance, then thinking (as though from outside my dreaming self) that I knew perfectly well it was a story about a girl and her father, and ew.
I do not recall anything for a while...up until the point at which I became a drug dealer. No seriously. I went out with these two other girls who seemed vaguely familiar and one of whom was blondeish, and my job was to hold the drugs in the pocket of my hooded choir sweatshirt. We went down my road to one end, at which point a pair of people whom I (in-dream and otherwise) recognized as familiar faces from the Latin convention last summer. I remember that the name of one of the drugs was "Narnia". Make of that what you will.
A few days later, I was in what I called in the dream a run-down community center, helping distill drugs in a broken sink, when my mother walked in. Although I was worried about how she would react, she just said that she had briefly done the same thing when she was younger.
Then the twenty-three-hour days I was pulling to go to school and sell drugs started to be too much, and I quit. That's all I remember.
----
Possibly my subconscious thinks I need to think more about reality and my original fiction than fandom. Either way, I think we can conclusively say that (1) my worldbuilding is very strange, and (2) I am never without a book.
Now I want to reread Jane of Lantern Hill.
At some point, I found at a library I do not usually frequent a copy of Jane of Lantern Hill by L.M. Montgomery which was in much better condition than the one at "my" library. I recall being temporarily unable to recall whether it was or was not a romance, then thinking (as though from outside my dreaming self) that I knew perfectly well it was a story about a girl and her father, and ew.
I do not recall anything for a while...up until the point at which I became a drug dealer. No seriously. I went out with these two other girls who seemed vaguely familiar and one of whom was blondeish, and my job was to hold the drugs in the pocket of my hooded choir sweatshirt. We went down my road to one end, at which point a pair of people whom I (in-dream and otherwise) recognized as familiar faces from the Latin convention last summer. I remember that the name of one of the drugs was "Narnia". Make of that what you will.
A few days later, I was in what I called in the dream a run-down community center, helping distill drugs in a broken sink, when my mother walked in. Although I was worried about how she would react, she just said that she had briefly done the same thing when she was younger.
Then the twenty-three-hour days I was pulling to go to school and sell drugs started to be too much, and I quit. That's all I remember.
----
Possibly my subconscious thinks I need to think more about reality and my original fiction than fandom. Either way, I think we can conclusively say that (1) my worldbuilding is very strange, and (2) I am never without a book.
Now I want to reread Jane of Lantern Hill.