A girl I knew and had feelings for in high school agreed to help me write a children's book titled The Youngest Hippopotamus.
(The girl -- lets call her "D" -- is one of the four girls in this artful photo manipulation created by yours truly.)
D had met me on the front porch of my house to discuss the book.
When she asked me what the book was about, I told her it was about a superhero who fights two Green Goblin-esque supervillains.
('Cause when you think The Youngest Hippopotamus, the first thing that comes to mind is some guy in spandex fighting two clowns dressed like this.)
When she essentially asked me if I had pulled that plot out of my ass, I admitted that that was the case and we both had a chuckle over it.
Growing serious, she then made it clear in no uncertain terms to me that our collaboration was strictly platonic, that nothing romantic was going to come out of this. I told her I already knew and understood this, that I was content just having her in my life as a friend.
While this was going on, my sister was watching us through a window, making stupid kissy faces and such. She then came out of the house and began skulking about, disturbing us. I told D that she always pulls this kind of garbage, that I can never relax when she's around. This turn of events upset D, and the camaraderie we had been enjoying was broken.
Before the dream could unfold further, I woke up.
(I blame the goddamn cat who was trying to smother me in my sleep.)
* * *
I often have recurring dreams about going back to high school; either it's to suffer being the only twenty-something student there and/or it's to go in search of someone or something I desperately want to find (but usually won't).
(Oh, bane of my dreams, how I hex you,)
This time, however, I was just visiting the place. There, I met some woman -- a plump, plain-looking woman with short blond hair.
(Picture the fat lady on the left wearing the glasses of the fat lady on the right, and you're got yourself a decent enough picture of what she looked like, sir-or-madam.)
She was a charity worker, and for some unrevealed (or forgotten) reason I joined up with her operation. This led me into various crime-ridden neighbourhoods to help out the unfortunates living there.
This dream then came to focus upon an unmarried black couple with a young son.
(Will Smith was the boyfriend/father.)
Destitute, they were forced to live in a crappy apartment without any heating. This caused them nearly to freeze to death every cold winter night. On one of these winter nights, one of their neighbours -- a gaudy pimp
-- was having a party, playing loud, atonal rap music which could be heard throughout the entire block.
Suffering from the cold, this noise only added to the couple's frustration. Getting up to the window, they yelled out to the pimp to turn the noise down. The pimp, unremarkably a prick, refused to comply.
* * *
A friend wanted to buy a rare issue of a comic magazine
(I think it was Heavy Metal.)
that came inside a cardboard slipcase. Going to a liquor store/comic shop,
(His favourite place to be.)
this friend found an exact copy of that particular issue but didn't have the money to buy it. Deciding to pitch in, I went to the liquor store/comic shop and offered to buy the magazine myself as a present for my friend. As I was giving the seedy shopkeeper the cash, though, I found the last few bills needed to complete the transaction torn in half.
(Cheap plastic Canadian cash.)
With me unable to pay him all the money, the shopkeeper gave me this offer: He'd give me the magazine if I'd cook meth for him. It didn't have to be high-quality blue stuff like the kind on Breaking Bad; he'd settle for the cheapest garbage I could cook up. I agreed to the deal.