Who could hang a name on a day like today? Had an interesting weekend. I was talking with a friend and told her about this odd dream I'd had about her a few nights before. She's a waitress, so quite naturally we fade in (or iris--I've always been a proponent of the iris; that poor camera trick gets such short shrift in the post-silent era) at a restaurant where I, typically, played the oh-so-important role of First-Person Customer. I don't remember specific details; somehow we ended up leaving the restaurant together, and she said, "I have to stop off at my place to get some stuff." Her "place" turned out to be a towering, almost Gothic inn, replete with palatial dining area, oak-kissed walls, and endless corridors of doors and rooms. "Wow," I gaped as we stood in the lobby. "You live here?" "Yes," she beamed proudly, "and all the rooms are mine."

Needless to say, she immediately plunged head-first into the gutter. "Man," she giggled, fanning herself. "That sounds really provocative, Cory! Whew!" You'll probably call me a liar (or--even worse--naive), but somehow, that never occurred to me. If it had, I certainly wouldn't have been blabbing about it. What did it mean? I have no idea, but eroticism was the furthest thing from my mind; the dream's events would hardly lend themselves to sexual interpretation, unless it's rampant with Freudian complexities and associative imagery I don't have the time to investigate.

Anyway, in conculsion, be advised to stay out of my dreams. They're a hotbed of debauchery.