x3. :(
February 1, 2009
And again, without visible b.
And another dream. Google, in recognition of our current woes, has pointed a link to free poster replications of The New York Times front page from the day the market crashed in 1929. The Google blog folks being savvy geeks, they warn to first shrink your browser window down an quickly scroll away from the top in order to avoid displaying some lurid advertising. Turns out that the shop giving away these things isn’t so savory.
Wanting one of those posters (for some reason which now escapes me), I follow the instructions to the letter in order not to expose my roommates (where’d they come from, and why are they all girls?) to porn ads. But when the page loads, there’s no poster link or image in sight, so I try scrolling around.
It turns out to be a 3D environment, with bulbous (some would say voluptuous, buy really…) women in skin-tight clothing covering the walls, and leather punk clothing in racks all around…apparently the shop’s main staple. Oh, and my bed smack against one wall, complete with dirty laundry, computer, and me sitting on it. I’m in the shop!
Pulling the comforter up to cover the entire screen, I peer behind me to see if the girls saw anything. They’re not looking at me or my computer. They’re gawking all about, and it’s clear that they can see all sound the shop as if they’re here as well.
Sighing, I give up on trying to be sfw and drop the comforter. I see some posters tucked here and there behind rows of color magazines and handmade CD covers, so I go over to take a closer look. No luck, so I ask a pierced man whom I’ve correctly assessed to be a store clerk whether they still have any of the historic posters.
“No.”
“Too bad. Er, are you going to get a new shipment in?”
“No.” Pithy.
Not sure how to get back to my dorm room, or whatever it is, I climb in bed next to my laundry, pull the covers over it and me, then concentrate in a Dorothy-like manner on getting home. Which works! Just in time, as I wake up and realize that I need to use the toilet.
More of the same.
And thank goodness for the weird dream with the BART conductor who claimed that, on Mondays, it’s always 9pm in the front car, and the station with a built-in natural history exhibit (with inappropriate presentations of gladiator dismemberment) for adolescents, and the bathroom that was so hard to find…I say, thank goodness that the dream bathroom had a bizarre, high-contact, filth-covered toilet that I dared not touch, or else I might have just let my bladder loose in bed.
I’m so tired I can barely open my eyes. Yawn. |-O
