(no subject)
Take a look narcissam. Your turn!
This is my attempt at Writing What I Know. There is not a thing in here that I haven't actually experienced. It's very short.
My friend and I are having a discussion about weird dreams.
"I had a dream where I was five and my friend who was a guy were driving in a little red toy car and then the person in the apartment got mad and then we were driving on the highway." I pause. She laughs. "And there was one where I was four going on five and I was wearing a bathing cap-" I demonstrate this with my fingers, "-and these people, like seven or eight years old were threatening to kidnap me and they stole my dad's wallet."
I reread the back of the bus seat which says "All Boys Who Sit Here Are Gay But Jacob" in magic marker. I tell her a short version of the dream I had where I there was a shrunken head and somebody screaming. The girl behind me is showing off her cellphone again - she's only in seventh grade. Kids these days.
We both agree that dreams don't make much sense; I repeat the fact that I always forget them at least three times.
"You know, dead people in dreams are good luck," she says, chewing thoughtfully on her thumbnail.
"Really?" I contemplate this; she recounts something about worshipping bananas. "I had a dream once about Ricky Martin."
"You did?"
"I was making out with Ricky Martin. On the roof of a car."
This is my attempt at Writing What I Know. There is not a thing in here that I haven't actually experienced. It's very short.
My friend and I are having a discussion about weird dreams.
"I had a dream where I was five and my friend who was a guy were driving in a little red toy car and then the person in the apartment got mad and then we were driving on the highway." I pause. She laughs. "And there was one where I was four going on five and I was wearing a bathing cap-" I demonstrate this with my fingers, "-and these people, like seven or eight years old were threatening to kidnap me and they stole my dad's wallet."
I reread the back of the bus seat which says "All Boys Who Sit Here Are Gay But Jacob" in magic marker. I tell her a short version of the dream I had where I there was a shrunken head and somebody screaming. The girl behind me is showing off her cellphone again - she's only in seventh grade. Kids these days.
We both agree that dreams don't make much sense; I repeat the fact that I always forget them at least three times.
"You know, dead people in dreams are good luck," she says, chewing thoughtfully on her thumbnail.
"Really?" I contemplate this; she recounts something about worshipping bananas. "I had a dream once about Ricky Martin."
"You did?"
"I was making out with Ricky Martin. On the roof of a car."