My subconscious is a strange country.
Nov. 27th, 2011 02:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
matt_doyleI had a plethora of strange dreams all daisy-chained one into the next, so that I'm really not sure whether they were meant to all be one or not.
I was back in college, flunking a psychology class taught by Shemar Moore. I really didn't want to disappoint him, because he was hot and charismatic.
There were secret passageways in the school.
I was actually infiltrating a local hardware store of some variety, in my role as a secretly trained martial artist from a long-hidden cult whose aims were now finally within my grasp.
My bad grades at school lost me a scholarship, so to stay as a student I had to take a part-time job as Executive Assistant to the nonhuman sentient being the anthropology department had imprisoned in their upstairs offices. It looked and sounded pretty much like Fizzgig, but with stubby little muppet limbs and googlier eyes. Only it was in heat. The job paid very well. Not well enough.
I was back in the hardware store, talking to Barack Obama, who was laying low along with some Secret Service types while someone outside was trying to kill him.
It may have been my secret martial arts cult that was trying to kill him; I'm not sure.
I was back in college, flunking a psychology class taught by Shemar Moore. I really didn't want to disappoint him, because he was hot and charismatic.
There were secret passageways in the school.
I was actually infiltrating a local hardware store of some variety, in my role as a secretly trained martial artist from a long-hidden cult whose aims were now finally within my grasp.
My bad grades at school lost me a scholarship, so to stay as a student I had to take a part-time job as Executive Assistant to the nonhuman sentient being the anthropology department had imprisoned in their upstairs offices. It looked and sounded pretty much like Fizzgig, but with stubby little muppet limbs and googlier eyes. Only it was in heat. The job paid very well. Not well enough.
I was back in the hardware store, talking to Barack Obama, who was laying low along with some Secret Service types while someone outside was trying to kill him.
It may have been my secret martial arts cult that was trying to kill him; I'm not sure.
