JackALope2323

Last night, I had about three memorable dream scenes.

First of all, I was walking (Or driving. I was just moving, I know that.) down the street of my hometown. (Why that hasn't become a dream sign yet, I don't know.) when I decided to take a bath.

Right there, in the middle of the street. Well, on a couch. My old history teacher had just been sitting on the couch, and made some mention of me. I forget exactly what.

Anyways, so yeah. I turn on the water for the couch, and get ready to strip and get in. Then I realize that I'd be bathing in the middle of a god damned street.

So I realize that's a pretty stupid idea, get dressed, get all my stuff, and get on the bus. I figure I should just go take a bath at one of the baths they have in JC Penney's at the Mall.

However, somewhere along the line I realize that'd STILL be too public for me, so I should just go home and take a bath there. However, I also don't want to seem weird getting on a bus and getting off at the same place it picked me up. (While this wasn't true, looking back, it seemed like it.)

I freaked out somewhere in the dream, thinking I had to be at school. Then I realized I didn't have school any more.

Somewhere on the bus drive, we made a stop, and two teenage guys got on. There was a large banging noise, and the bus driver, who I'd apparently befriended by this point, asked me by name (I was sitting right next to her) to go check out the stuff in the back.

I get out, and notice (Well, not really. It seems perfectly normal to me.) that the bus is actually a truck. In the back of the truck is a whole bunch of cilantro. A lot of it has fallen out the back in the process of the two teenage guys stepping on the bus. (By the way, this bus opens from both sides in the front. Bus driver a was heavy-set black lady. Gotta recall details.) So, me and the two guys help pick up the cilantro (I don't even know if this is what cilantro looks like. It kind of looked liked asparagus, but my thin and grass-like. It was REALLY fucking long, though.) and put it back in the truck bed. Then we realize there's also a giant squid and a giant cucumber to put back. So they lift up the giant squid while I pick up the giant cucumber. They put the squid in first, and I squeeze the cucumber in, having to put it diagonally. In order to help fit everything in, one of the guys decides to take one of the squid's tentacles, which was being smooshed up against the back of the truck bed, and put it through the window into the truck cab. We make mention about how this might freak out the "bus" driver, but nobody cares.

Then, somewhere else.

I'm in my old history class room. Me and two of my old school friends, called D and G for now, had an assignment left to do after everybody else. We had to write a poem about fighting on a WWI battlefield, and recite it to the class. D managed to do his no problem. Got it done and over with quick. Every time I tried to do mine, though, I got interrupted. I asked G if he had already done his (G is still my best friend, but he moved to North Carolina five years ago. Why he still hasn't been a dream sign, I don't know. Don't know why my school or hometown hasn't been a dream sign, either.) assignment, and he slyly says yes, meaning he hasn't but he doesn't exactly intend to, either. He makes some snide comments about one of the people sitting near us, and I eventually get up and recite my poem.

My history teacher tells the class to settle down for my poem, then promptly leaves the room. I get up, and start reciting it, but everybody is still talking. So I yell the first line of the din of the class room. As I start reciting the next few lines, another school friend of mine, R, who was always a bit autistic, decides to start shouting the lines to my poem (I don't know how he knows them.) I tell him to stop. He does so promptly.

Anyways, I'm now singing my poem like it's some sort of war song. Somewhere during this, I realize that I don't know the words to this poem. Primarily because I didn't write it. This is someone else's poem. I notice a stanza in the poem I'm reading, though. It's a beautiful stanza. Like, literary fucking genius. Even in the dream world I knew that. In the waking world I know it too.

But for the life of me, I can't remember it. So disappointing.

Anyways, as I'm singing my poem, or at least the poem in my hands, the classroom starts to change. As it seems, singing my poem is doing something to the classroom.

Transporting us in time to 1939's Germany.

Half-way through the poem, it turns into a Nazi national song, and I just let the rest of the now Nazi class take over. The only ones not affected are D and G. For some reason, D has a Karabiner 98k, which he was poking me with with the bayonet when I was reciting lines in the poem about charging with sword and bayonet. (Fuck, the entire poem was really good. I wish I could remember it.)

Anyways, D hands me the K98, which is apparently mine. I'm now dressed up in a Wehrmacht uniform, and apparently in my 30s. I don't ask. It's a dream. When do you ever ask?

I prop it up, and carry it like a Wehrmacht is supposed to. I'm not actually IN the Wehrmacht, I realize. I'm just infiltrating it. D and G get upset because they think I'm going to hurt someone with it (I had previously tried to load it with a real bullet. Now, side note here. I think the size of the bullet was .50 cal. And, for some reason, when I was loading it, it looked like it was going to fit. Silly dream guns.) but I tell them this is how the Wehrmacht carries it (I had it in my left hand, leaning with the belly towards me on my shoulder, supporting it with my right hand. I don't even know if that's how it's supposed to be carried.) so I need to carry it this way.

I walk through the class room towards a trio of Wehrmacht soldiers. I ask them, in the worst fucking German accent I could conjure up "Requisition?" (Which, thinking back, is a word in the English language of FRENCH origin. The Germans wouldn't know what the fuck I was talking about, and would probably try to shoot me for sounding French.) You see, I wanted an MG42. Not measly K98. I talk to the guys a bit, trying to sound German, when I finally admit I'm American. I try to use simple words so they follow along. I explain that I think what Hitler is doing is good (Lies, once more, infiltrating the Wehrmacht) and I wanted to help him, so I moved to Germany and joined the Wehrmacht.

This is about where dream memorability ends.