So I may turn into one of those people who is forever posting weird dreams that they have because I have a lot of them. But I don’t really want to be *that* person, so I’ll keep it to a minimum and only post them when they’re really, really strange.

I woke up this morning having had the following dream:

I was sitting in not-Favorite Bar in an unknown city, but the bar was populated with a few of the bartenders from Favorite Bar, which is in Easton, PA. We were friends with most of the bar staff there, which is probably why they ended up populating my dream.  Anyway, so I was sitting on a bar stool stolen from one of the bartenders (who was hanging out for an after work beer) and was being spun around in this bar stool by another one of the bartenders, laughing and having a good time and waiting to find out if Tony and I had had our offer accepted to buy Swanky Apartment in Random City.

So I got the phone call I’d been waiting for from the realtor. The realtor was PISSED.

Why?

Apparently either Tony and/or I (the dream wasn’t clear on who did this) had sent the realtor the payment to make the offer (or whatever the logic was) in the form of a GERBIL. As in, the realtor called me hugely pissed off because he’d received the check in the mail, but the check was actually a small, furry, hungry gerbil which had jumped out of the tiny box it was in and bitten the realtor on the hand. So the realtor was giving the apartment to someone else, someone who would pay him with money rather than the finest in rodentry, and he told me he didn’t so much care if we spent the rest of our lives living in our cars. And then he slammed down the phone, presumably to go bandage his rodent-bitten hand.

The thing is, when I dream, I tend to just accept the oddities and missteps of logic and so on, only to wonder about it when I wake up. Apparently, however, sending a gerbil to a realtor was too much even for my whacked-out brain – even while I was dreaming I was trying to piece together how we could have screwed up like that. The best I could come up with in dream-logic was that we had a pre-packaged gerbil on the bar next to the check for the realtor (because for some reason the check the realtor was *supposed* to get was on  the bar next to my bar stool), and we’d accidentally picked up the wrong one (this, of course, does not account for why the gerbil would have been addressed to the realtor any more than it accounts for why we wouldn’t have been handing over a check for a major transaction in person, but details). But I was being spun around in my bar stool and was having fun anyway, kind of like a five-year-old being pushed on a swing, so I didn’t worry about it too much.

So.

I am steadfastly refusing to try to figure out what this says about me, because I honestly don’t want to know.

Advertisements