Dream Journal
Damon and I visited my parents at them home. We went inside and I sat in my dad’s chair in the living room.
Damon wandered around, went downstairs then came back upstairs; he was getting ready because we were going out. He grabbed a small wig from the dining table and put it on over his real hair. It looked the exact same as his real hair in color, length, and style.
Melissa stood in the living room as I worked at putting my hair into a long ponytail. I told her that the function we were going to is very particular about hair.
A volunteer from work came inside and said she was tired of waiting in the car. With her is a medium-sized dog that I leaned down to pet on my way downstairs.
I told B that I was ready to go while the volunteer talked with Mom and Dad at the bottom of the stairs.
I heard the motorcycle start outside and was a little miffed: B’s ankle was still hurt and he should not have been riding the motorcycle. I started up the stairs to tell him we should go in the car when my dad, standing on the very bottom step, reached out his hand and brushed my arm, then my butt.
I stopped five steps above him, turned around, and threw myself at him. He stood on the floor holding his bare foot—he hurt it when he slid down the last step.
I was certain that my action sounded like an accident, that I fell and caused him to fall down the last step, but I wanted everyone to know that I acted purposefully.
So I screamed at him, “Do not touch me! It is inappropriate, inappropriate to grab my ass! I hate you! I hate you for touching me!”
He ran up the steps halfway after me to forcefully shut me up, but I retreated into the dark landing at the top of the stairs and he backed off.
I continued to yell at him, getting closer to the bottom of the stairs as I did. I yell about him touching Melissa and how I would never forgive him for that. He, my mother, and the volunteer all backed into the downstairs kitchen while I continued to yell.
Dad was embarrassed at making a scene in front of the volunteer, so he hand wrote a note on a letter-sized piece of scratch paper, folded in in half, and handed it to me while I yelled. I paused to read the note.
The note was written in a tight cursive and looked nothing like his real handwriting. His note said that Melissa had told him one of her brothers had mistreated her, and he wanted to protect her from that. I looked up at him, Mom, and the volunteer, knowing it was a lie.
Then I was standing with B beside our fish tank in a darkened room. I was feeding the fish but became distracted by the yelling in another room. I dumped a ton of fish flakes into the tank and laughed about the excess.
I opened the frog food container and pinched a few pellets to drop into the tank. B held the bottle for me and started spooning the pellets into the tank.
The bottom of the container was much shallower than the sides indicated, and I though it odd that the manufacturers would want to deceive everyone into thinking they were getting twice as much food than was actually in the container.
I told B that he would make the frog sick and tried to grab the container from him, but he laughed.