<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217</id><updated>2012-02-16T04:08:27.236-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I Still Feel as if I'm Dancing</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><link rel='next' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default?start-index=101&amp;max-results=100'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>196</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-6541105701276370212</id><published>2012-01-04T20:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2012-01-04T21:22:12.043-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Jun.4.2001 #2</title><content type='html'>I'm at my mom's place, and she tells me that she has a convertible.  I didn't know this, so I go out and take it.  It's silver and sporty.  For some reason I don't scoot the seat up and so I have trouble braking the car while also seeing over the dash.  I'm wearing my sarong with a white tank top and sunglasses; my hair is tousled.  On my left leg there is a huge tattoo.  It's purpley and intricate and cool, all on the upper outside of my thigh.&lt;br /&gt;I go to my house and there are all these people there-they're not circus folks, but they are weird, but in a good way.  There's one midget.  Everybody is dancing in the basement with the lights off, and I join them for a while.  Then I go upstairs to my room, and I look at myself in the mirror and think how beautiful I am. There is no bed in the room.&lt;br /&gt;The midget comes in and starts talking to me, he wants me to join their group, but I have to leave.  I get in the car and drive to the stadium, where there is a game playing, and also Askimbo. I don't go to the stadium, but rather to a cafe across from it.  I am sitting at a round table with my back to the door.  Some woman joins me.  I know her, but she introduces herself, and I tell her that we have already met several times before.  Brian comes in and stands behind me with his hands on my shoulders.  He kisses my head before returning to the band.&lt;br /&gt;Soon I'm eating some bacon and Jason Struna enters.  He has a jar full of clear liquid with a large piece of fatty bacon that looks like it has been preserved.  Jason is very excited about being able to finally eat the bacon, but I am repulsed by it.  I leave the cafe with Michaela.  We are outsid on a grassy hill.  There's a cement table with two benches at the top of the hill.  As we pass by the table I see two cats fighting.&lt;br /&gt;One cat is a grey Siamese, with striking blue eyes and a black tail.  The other cat is mangy and an unidentifiable mix.  The cats are fighting to the death.  They are on the bench, right in front of us.  The mangy cat bites the Siamese cat's throat and holds it's head down.  The Siamese has it's claws in the mangy cat's throat. I can't see the cats' face, but the black tail of the Siamese suddenly stiffens, then spases and the cat falls dead. The mangy cat lets go of the dead animal's throat leaving it's lifeless body on the bench.  The mangy cat is drenched in it's own blood, flowing from the holes in it's neck, and it staggers off to die.&lt;br /&gt;I start heaving and vomitting bile.  I'm dry heaving and can see the ground, my shoes, my bile falling, all this through my watery eyes.  I notice an older couple who had also seen the fight; the husband is comforting his wife as she cries.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-6541105701276370212?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/6541105701276370212/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=6541105701276370212' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6541105701276370212'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6541105701276370212'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2012/01/jun42001-2.html' title='Jun.4.2001 #2'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4058382311269310197</id><published>2012-01-04T20:17:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2012-01-04T20:31:32.063-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Jun.4.2001 #1</title><content type='html'>Brian picks me up, and we drop Liz off next to a park.  Brian cuts through the park because we are low on gas.  I'm upset with him because it is my car and he is driving recklessly.  There's a garage at the bottom of this hill.  There is only one pump, and it's currently in use, so we go inside.  Everytime we go out to use the pump someone cuts in front of us.  Brian finally just parks the car and we go inside for awhile. There's a bakery inside the garage.&lt;br /&gt;When we go outside again we can't find the car.  It's dark now and I'm emotionally exhausted, so I sit down.  Brian's not there anymore and I can see the sky.  After a while this man comes over to me.  He's black, tall, skinny and flambouant.  He tells me that he found my car.&lt;br /&gt;I follow him to the top of the hill, to his house, which has a garage attached.  Inside the garage there are 5 or 6 black men.  I sit down and they ask me what color my car is.  I say, "blue, dark blue, like the sky at night."  The men like it and they all reply, "yes, like the sky."&lt;br /&gt;The garage door opens and my car comes out, with pictures all over it.  They are scenes that have been painted onto the car and superimposed over each scene is a woman, fully dressed with neon circles around her breasts.  I laugh, and they laugh with me.  I get up and walk over to the car, and start unconsciously scratching off the pictures.  I then suddenly realize what an insult that must be and leave the rest.&lt;br /&gt;I leave with my car to go get Brian from his mom's house, and on the way I get mad at him again for leaving me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4058382311269310197?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4058382311269310197/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4058382311269310197' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4058382311269310197'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4058382311269310197'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2012/01/jun42001-1.html' title='Jun.4.2001 #1'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-1045152229368936279</id><published>2011-12-28T21:05:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-12-28T21:12:04.367-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Jun.3.2001</title><content type='html'>I haven't left for Thailand yet, but I'm ready to.  I'm in an apartment with Felicity.  We're packing.  I'm trying to get a hold of Brian, but Anthony keeps answering and won't let me speak with Brian.  I think I call back later.  I fall asleep, and at 6:20 wake up, startled, so I call Brian.  I'm sad and upset at Anthony.  I miss Brian.  We get up and start getting ready.  I want to look nice but still be warm.  I try to put on my scrubs underneath my skirt, but they won't fit.&lt;br /&gt;Liz shows up, she's taking us to the airport.  We take off, but I still need to stop at the grocery store.  We stop and I get an ice cream treat.  I come out and it's night, we're in an even bigger hurry.  We arrive at the airport and it's very bright.  There's a baseball game going on indoors.  I cut through the game and to the front of the line, were Felicity is waiting with my ticket.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-1045152229368936279?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/1045152229368936279/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=1045152229368936279' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1045152229368936279'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1045152229368936279'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/12/jun32001.html' title='Jun.3.2001'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-6699469465463597697</id><published>2011-12-28T20:53:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-12-28T21:02:24.949-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Jun.2.2001</title><content type='html'>The dream takes place in this house on one block.  I'm living next door to a black family.  One day I go over and am hanging out with the kids.  The mother isn't home, its just a brother and a sister, my age.  We're hanging out smoking pot.  The brother's cute, I like him.&lt;br /&gt;I go back home, where either Vida or Jessica lives.  There's a bunch of confusion and chaos.  Jess doesn't want to deal with her mom, who's in the kitchen, and there's anxiety.  It's a very small kitchen, crowded and messy, and her mom is cooking with many pans.  It's hot and steamy.&lt;br /&gt;I step out and go next door to see if they want to smoke a blunt.  There are people over, but the brother goes for a walk around the block with me.  I have a joint, but the weed keeps falling out, so I have to reroll it.  I sit down on the edge of this one lawn, but the guy tells me that we can't roll it there, because the woman who lives there is mean and hates marijuana.  We keep moving, having trouble finding a place to roll it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-6699469465463597697?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/6699469465463597697/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=6699469465463597697' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6699469465463597697'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6699469465463597697'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/12/jun22001.html' title='Jun.2.2001'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-487847780299107703</id><published>2011-12-28T20:23:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-12-28T20:52:08.635-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Jun.1,2001</title><content type='html'>First dream:&lt;br /&gt;I'm watching it like a movie.  There's this man on the side of this truck going down east Colfax, before Colo. Blvd.  It's the 70's. The man in the truck lives in a neighborhood and there is this boy that he is mentally and emotionally terrorizing. The whole dream takes place at night.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Second dream:&lt;br /&gt;I am in a department store with a female friend, and I keep messing things up.  On the second floor there is a mannequin that is bent over to look like it's putting on these high-heeled platform shoes. Jokingly I slap the mannequin on the ass, and the entire display knocks over.  The room is small as it is, and full of women who are looking at me.  I start cleaning up the mess, having to reassemble the metal shoe rack.  It's very difficult, but I finally complete it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Third dream:&lt;br /&gt;I am living with Sean, but he's not married yet, and someone else lives there also.  It's night and I think that there's someone or something living in the house.  We are gathered in the living room and the lights are out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fourth dream:&lt;br /&gt;I'm at a restaurant on  east Colfax past Colo. Blvd.. I go into the place to talk to the owner, an older Asian woman, to see if she wants to come to Lake Mac with us.  When I arrive the place is empty, but by the time that I am done talking to her, the place is full of people I know.  I try and leave w/o talking to anyone.  As I open the door, Meredith says my name w/o looking at me.  I feel caught so I turn and look at her.  I go and sit across from her and talk to her for awhile.  Then I talk to other people, but I have to leave.  I exit the restaurant.  I don't remember where my car is.  Finally I find it and I head home to give Suzie the gem I got for her. &lt;br /&gt;I get home and pull out a bag of gems, and I don't know where I got them from.  I just give them to Suzie and head out to Lake Mac.  Laura and others are there when I arrive.  I'm sitting in the water and there are waves like the ocean's, but they are mostly sand.  They engulf me, but I don't feel scared.  I get out of the water and it is overcast.  I need to leave so I can make it to Thailand.  One of the people there doesn't want me to go until we've taken a group picture, but everyone is up at the lodge, and I really need to go.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-487847780299107703?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/487847780299107703/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=487847780299107703' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/487847780299107703'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/487847780299107703'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/12/jun12001.html' title='Jun.1,2001'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-2954689496989497172</id><published>2011-11-13T20:01:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-11-13T20:04:36.354-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-myo1_dDhHRQ/TsCS5ytoSlI/AAAAAAAAADg/y-MbW_NclPI/s1600/dreamingil.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 207px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-myo1_dDhHRQ/TsCS5ytoSlI/AAAAAAAAADg/y-MbW_NclPI/s320/dreamingil.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674697052050180690" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;an illustration I did a year or so ago.  Imagery from my many dreams&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-2954689496989497172?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/2954689496989497172/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=2954689496989497172' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2954689496989497172'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2954689496989497172'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/11/illustration-i-did-year-or-so-ago.html' title=''/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-myo1_dDhHRQ/TsCS5ytoSlI/AAAAAAAAADg/y-MbW_NclPI/s72-c/dreamingil.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-344130138345263018</id><published>2011-11-06T13:53:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-11-06T14:04:59.999-08:00</updated><title type='text'>30 May 2004</title><content type='html'>Dream 1:&lt;br /&gt;I have a white car similar to Heath's but I've let it get very dusty and dirty.  I pull into a field lot next to a silo looking building.  It's night and I think that I need to clean the car.  There are other students there, and we all climb these tall metal stairs.  Some of the other students are foreign and we are comparing pencils.  I have the gold mechanical one that Dad gave me.  We get to the top and enter our classroom.  It's very dim inside.  We all sit at individual desks and the professor passes out the test.  There is a lady to the side of me with a cheat sheet and he catches her, berates her and stops the test.  When we restart the test it is on a computer and there are all these crazy physics diagrams with all these questions about them.  Either I was asking a question, or there was something wrong with my computer, but when the professor comes over to help he accidentally erases my test, and can't retrieve it.  I remember thinking how I should have studied more and at one point there was a fiasco with the pencils and my mechanical one was worn down to a stub.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dream 2:&lt;br /&gt;I am walking on 17th St.  Its grey out, drizzling and evening.  I felt like walking.  I go to meet Brian at a movie but once I get there I am not interested, so I leave.  As I'm walking I see Vida and Noah.  They are also watching a movie, so I tell them I'll see them later and keep walking.  Them maybe I see someone I know in a car or something and I go into this house/restaurant.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-344130138345263018?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/344130138345263018/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=344130138345263018' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/344130138345263018'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/344130138345263018'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/11/30-may-2004.html' title='30 May 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4937129907913335306</id><published>2011-11-06T13:39:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-11-06T13:53:40.107-08:00</updated><title type='text'>28 May 2004</title><content type='html'>I am in Denver.  I go to Linda's new apartment.  She's moving a cardboard stand around.  There is a living room area and then the rooms are off of that, and also upstairs.  One of the people who lives there is Kevin Smith.  I ask him if he'll do a bullshit episode of Bullshit, but as soon as I ask him, I realize that he isn't part of that show.  He's bothered by that and disappears into his room.  There is going to be a party there later, so I go get something to eat on Colfax.  I go to this pizza shop and while I wait, the owner is cutting green M&amp;amp;Ms out of sugar cookie dough.  A woman enters and she's got a trumpet.  She's older but still very vivacious, and she's got this colorful outfit on.  She gets ready to play and is trying to elicit excitement from the customers, but we mostly ignore her.  So she gets snappy and makes us get excited.  We do, and then she's happy and starts to play.  I leave and go back to Linda's.  The party has started and there are a fair amount of people there, but people are on something and it brings out different traits in different people.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4937129907913335306?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4937129907913335306/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4937129907913335306' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4937129907913335306'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4937129907913335306'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/11/28-may-2004.html' title='28 May 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-7860119043019482269</id><published>2011-11-06T13:32:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-11-06T13:38:42.123-08:00</updated><title type='text'>27 May 2004 #4</title><content type='html'>I walk into this building.  It's a temple.  Inside everything is an earthen color, and across the room there is a man bending in the doorway, stretching and instructing others.  He's a darker man with long dreads pulled back.  The temple is a tantric one, and it feels very old.  I'm sitting along the wall on a ledge watching the instruction.  There is a guy next to me with his dick out, and he's trying to get me to look at it, but I ignore him and turn my back.  Later these intruders with money come in and require the people of the temple to include their daughter in the rituals.  She is this grotesque obese woman who is carried in on a stretcher. &lt;br /&gt;Next thing I am in this forgotten room, with dusty children's toys and an old computer.  I am with a couple other people and we are looking for something to overthrow the intruders.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-7860119043019482269?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/7860119043019482269/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=7860119043019482269' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7860119043019482269'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7860119043019482269'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/11/27-may-2004-4.html' title='27 May 2004 #4'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-5690632515860522722</id><published>2011-11-06T13:25:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-11-06T13:32:04.598-08:00</updated><title type='text'>27 May 2004 #3</title><content type='html'>I am with Heath and Jessica on the rooftop patio of some building.  It's grey and windy out.  The entire roof top shifts in timed intervals from one side to another, creating an overhang.  Heath is sitting at a bar that looks out over the edge, reading the newspaper. He tells me that someone won $1 Billion up in Michigan.  Then Jessica comes over with a plate full of Jellybeans, and I tell the two of them about my dream where Brian and John visited me.&lt;br /&gt;Soon we go inside to an apartment.  There is a raised area that has red bars around it, like guard rails, and then steps down to a living room.  We are setting out food for a party and some of the guests are already there.  Terry is one of them.  After the party Heath, Jessica and I go out walking downtown, but it's more like ATL than DEN.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-5690632515860522722?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/5690632515860522722/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=5690632515860522722' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/5690632515860522722'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/5690632515860522722'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/11/27-may-2004-3.html' title='27 May 2004 #3'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-7017426716040230219</id><published>2011-11-06T13:18:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-11-06T13:25:26.909-08:00</updated><title type='text'>27 May 2004 #2</title><content type='html'>I'm sleeping downstairs in Francie's place and I am awakened by Brian and John Simpkins entering the room.  It's my birthday and they came all the way out to ATL to visit me.  The spark a bowl, but I tell them that we can't smoke here, so they put it out.  John has all here joints of kind bud rolled.  I hear Francie coming down the stairs, so I stash the weed in my pocket.  She seems suspicious, but doesn't say anything.  She tells me that Alyssa called and told her someone won $1 Billion up in Michigan.  We are all sitting around and Brian gives me a present of jellybeans.  Then this group come in, and one of the guys starts to strip off his shirt.  These people Brian and John picked up on the way out to visit me.  The entire time I am nervous about the weed in my pocket.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-7017426716040230219?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/7017426716040230219/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=7017426716040230219' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7017426716040230219'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7017426716040230219'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/11/27-may-2004-2.html' title='27 May 2004 #2'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-2501229837077463674</id><published>2011-11-02T20:32:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-11-02T21:04:23.701-07:00</updated><title type='text'>25 May 2004</title><content type='html'>I'm on the balcony of a large house.  On the fire escape of the neighboring house stands a man (who looks like a famous actor but is just a guy in the dream).  I am in love/lust with him, and he is coming for me.  Before we bridge the two gaps I make the man help Vida from down off the roof. After he does this we embrace, and I am filled with elation.  We kiss and my panties get wet, soon it's heavy petting, so we move inside to a bedroom.  I'm embarrassed about my underware being wet, but the man doesn't care.  We're naked, and he's rushing sex even though his dick isn't hard.  Finally I tell him I don't want sex, I just want to make out.  He starts talking to his cock, trying to reason with it.  From there the dream follows the man.&lt;br /&gt;The man gets a job, and falls in with the wrong crowd.  There's something about some drugs and some shit goes down.  I'm watching this.  He's at a baseball field, its' night, and he jumps the fence, running while these people chase him down.  They tackle him and carry him off.  He is taken to a factory/lab and is serving time.  His cell mate (also a famous actor) pines for the family that was taken away from him.  The cell mate has a doll, and is rocking it, singing to it.  A doctor comes in and takes away the doll.  This agitates the cell mate, so he is then restrained.&lt;br /&gt;Next thing I know, I'm in jail also.  I'm being kept in a very large building, on a floor that is empty.  There are both men and women there, and I pick a public fight with mousy woman.  When I finally get her upset I apologize, which confuses her. &lt;br /&gt;At some point in the dream I walk by Michelle and Taylor, playing outside.  When I walk away I hear Michelle tell Taylor that they need to go get her a TV.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-2501229837077463674?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/2501229837077463674/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=2501229837077463674' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2501229837077463674'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2501229837077463674'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/11/25-may-2004.html' title='25 May 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-8213052079107245430</id><published>2011-11-02T20:24:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-11-02T20:30:55.810-07:00</updated><title type='text'>24 May 2004</title><content type='html'>I apply for a job at a grocery store/Walmart, and later so does Annie.  After working there a day or two I realize that this is not where I want to work, so I try to leave.  There are these unruly who keep knocking things down, and throwing stuff.  I have to move both Graeme's and Heath's cars from the fenced in lot when I go to leave.  First I move Graeme's, but then I have to go back for Heath's car.  When I get to it, the door is open, and I think that someone has stolen the stereo and other things, but then everything is there.  I go back inside for something and the store employees take me into the back where these "bosses" are, who try and assault me, but I get out.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-8213052079107245430?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/8213052079107245430/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=8213052079107245430' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/8213052079107245430'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/8213052079107245430'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/11/24-may-2004.html' title='24 May 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-6979298260372158167</id><published>2011-11-02T16:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-11-06T13:17:59.270-08:00</updated><title type='text'>27 May 2004 #1</title><content type='html'>Zach and I are drinking, and then we go to a funeral at a large church.  Vida and Noah are there, and so are a lot of other people.  Then everyone is dancing the tango.  Afterwords I leave, and go to the Dexter house.  Suzie and Shari are cleaning after the service.  There's a boy Graeme's age who has hypothermia and Sheri is caring for him.  Then there's this girl Graeme knows who lays with the boy.&lt;br /&gt;Next we are in this large auditorium full of young people.  Everyone's waiting for a movie to start.  I have something in my hands and I ask the person in the row in front of me, in Spanish, if they need it.  On my way out, someone makes an "oh la la" comment, and I retort that it's time to learn another language.  I work my way back through the city to Zack's place.  I have this dense chocolate ball that I don't want.  We are at a 7-11 and I slyly drop it on the floor and continue shopping.  The sales lady comes over and asks me to pick up my trash.  She and I have words; she's timid, but persistent and in the end I pick it up.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-6979298260372158167?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/6979298260372158167/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=6979298260372158167' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6979298260372158167'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6979298260372158167'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/11/27-may-2004.html' title='27 May 2004 #1'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-3699683867022290907</id><published>2011-11-02T16:07:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-11-02T16:13:28.320-07:00</updated><title type='text'>23 May 2004</title><content type='html'>I-&lt;br /&gt;We go to a gig downtown and park the car.  When we come out, the car is gone, and there are all these weird looking cars around, like old electric ones.  Then all the instruments are gone.  Slowly through out the dream I find the instruments in odd places.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;II-&lt;br /&gt;some sort of sex dream with Brian in it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;III-&lt;br /&gt;I am at school and it is cold out.  I am trying to leave, but it takes me several trips because I keep forgetting stuff.  I go to a coffee shop where a woman is giving a lecture.  I pay the cashier, and later the speaker tries to bill someone.  At one point I am telling everyone that I part my hair on the other side, but no one notices.  I think Kayla is there also.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-3699683867022290907?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/3699683867022290907/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=3699683867022290907' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3699683867022290907'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3699683867022290907'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/11/23-may-2004.html' title='23 May 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-267219025970005322</id><published>2011-11-02T11:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-11-02T16:05:20.260-07:00</updated><title type='text'>22 May 2004</title><content type='html'>Dream A:&lt;br /&gt;I am at a party.  There are a lot of Angelo's people here.  Brian is there playing tether ball with some other people.  Terry F is here, he is getting ready to move to Penang.  There is a guy here with a huge bag of weed.  At one point I am at a gas station and I see Chad and Dulce, but they don't see me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dream B:&lt;br /&gt;I stop by Zach's place.  It's afternoon and he is home.  We are talking and writing and drawing.  He has a show later.  I get there when he gets there.  A bear cub is waiting outside.  Zach recognizes it, but gives it little mind.  It rubs against me like a dog; it's got a blond/golden coat.  A child shows up, maybe he's homeless, and then he is in the house with us.  The boy has black hair, brown eyes and dirt on his face.  The bear swipes at the child and scratches it's temple.  We clean the wound up and then both the bear and the child are gone.  Zach and I go back to drawing, and we draw something that would make good puppets.  Zach still has his show later and is visibly tired.  I offer to make the puppets, but Zach tells me to either take a nap with him, or to leave.  Instead of taking a nap when I leave, Zach walks me home.&lt;br /&gt;Everything in the dream is quiet up to this point, but when we walk into my house on Dexter, there are a bunch of people there, and Brian is one of them.  There is a bunch of weed out, and the phone is ringing.  It's Laura. At first I can't hear her because of the background commotion, but finally I understand that she wants me to go in on an $300 sack.  When I get off the phone Zach has gone, but he left his jacket.&lt;br /&gt;Next Suzie and Kayla come in, so I quickly hide all the drugs.  Graeme is in his room, but his room is bare.  There is a piano shell against one wall and Graeme is sitting at it, but on the floor. He has long, bleached white hair with chlorine green stains in it.  He is showing me what he has been working on at the piano, and although there are no keys and he is on the floor, the piano plays.&lt;br /&gt;I go into my room and Brian is there watching tv.  Kramer is on.  In the show, Kramer is with a group of kindergartners, sitting around a mat.  Kramer leans in and asks all the kids: "Is there a test so bad that we would all fail it?"  The kids look terrified.  Kramer look over his shoulder and then back at the kids. "Don't worry, I know how to fix (work/manipulate) these people. You kids just go home," he tells them.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-267219025970005322?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/267219025970005322/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=267219025970005322' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/267219025970005322'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/267219025970005322'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/11/22-may-2004.html' title='22 May 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-7691304051465497792</id><published>2011-11-02T11:06:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-11-02T11:19:38.137-07:00</updated><title type='text'>16 May 2004</title><content type='html'>I'm traveling back and forth through the city, every time rushing.  At my destination there is this bathroom which I have to go through to get to my destination.  Each time I pass through the counter is full of people's stuff: women's watches, earrings and neckalces.  All of it is beautiful, or antique, many made of precious materials.  I'm looking through the items and I know none of it is mine, but I think about taking it.  In the end though I realize that I have no real desire for any of it.&lt;br /&gt;On one trip, either there or back, I am with Brian, and he is driving.  We are trying to get some coffee and we are lost.  I'm anxious because I'm late and we are arguing.  Finally we pull into this industrial yard and a woman I recognize comes out.  When I ask her where we can get some coffee, she replies: "Right here," and walks off to make our coffee.  I feel better, more relaxed and I watch the rusty machines in the yard.  I think about the bathroom from earlier, how in contrast it was so spotless and fancy, yet also homogenized in a way.&lt;br /&gt;At some point I end up in this apartment.  It is mostly empty, and has tall ceilings.  There is a couch, a television and a large open kitchen.  The man who lives there is in his 30's, a white guy who walks around in these white and grey speckled jogging pants.  For some reason he and I are at odds and we are yelling.  There is, at one time, someone else there, and while this guy is yelling at me, he's got his cock hanging out.  When he realizes, he gets frustrated and I laugh at him, citing that as proof of his stupidity.  In the end though, it is I who is wrong and I am apologizing to another person who is with me, I feel that I got them in trouble, but they are calm and compassionate.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-7691304051465497792?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/7691304051465497792/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=7691304051465497792' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7691304051465497792'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7691304051465497792'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/11/16-may-2004.html' title='16 May 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-1054287298483203861</id><published>2011-10-27T03:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-27T03:16:00.929-07:00</updated><title type='text'>14 May 2004</title><content type='html'>Laura is telling me about Zach going on a date, and how he was all cute about it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-1054287298483203861?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/1054287298483203861/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=1054287298483203861' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1054287298483203861'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1054287298483203861'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/14-may-2004.html' title='14 May 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-7858299007065217187</id><published>2011-10-27T03:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-27T03:12:59.574-07:00</updated><title type='text'>24 April 2004</title><content type='html'>A bunch of my friends are in my car smoking, and I am in such a stupor that I don't stop them.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-7858299007065217187?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/7858299007065217187/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=7858299007065217187' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7858299007065217187'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7858299007065217187'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/24-april-2004.html' title='24 April 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-6470738805930082100</id><published>2011-10-27T03:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-27T03:11:30.817-07:00</updated><title type='text'>18 April 2004</title><content type='html'>Dream 1:&lt;br /&gt;I am at a high school gymnasium watching some team sporting event.  There's this family, an odd family.  There's a white haired patriarch who I beguile and befriend.  Then the others let me in, they are all magic, and I also have a magic.  I talk to the plants, I hold them close and they grow instantaneously.  I speak to them in all sorts of languages, and they grow.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dream 2:&lt;br /&gt;I'm in a prison in the countryside.  It feels like another era, my clothes are a bland heavy cotton.  The prison has a large field, unkempt, and at first I'm all upset about being in prison, but then I fall in love with an inmate/guard.  We sneak off into the field often and it's war, and I'm happy.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-6470738805930082100?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/6470738805930082100/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=6470738805930082100' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6470738805930082100'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6470738805930082100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/18-april-2004.html' title='18 April 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4950789739334975352</id><published>2011-10-27T02:55:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-27T03:00:09.252-07:00</updated><title type='text'>14 April 2004</title><content type='html'>I'm in a labor camp and there is a child adept with me.  I help her escape and once we are out I carry the child so it can sleep.  We are looking for her parents.  We crawl through a vertical hamper into a room where a man, woman and possibly other children live.&lt;br /&gt;They are the child's parents, but they are reluctant to take her back, and their reason for giving the child up was mundane and selfish.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4950789739334975352?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4950789739334975352/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4950789739334975352' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4950789739334975352'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4950789739334975352'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/14-april-2004.html' title='14 April 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4967728548040680584</id><published>2011-10-23T00:26:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-23T00:27:42.627-07:00</updated><title type='text'>03 March 2004</title><content type='html'>Brian, some others and I create this metal worm/snake machine that burrows.  At one point we fight a giant rabbit.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4967728548040680584?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4967728548040680584/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4967728548040680584' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4967728548040680584'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4967728548040680584'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/03-march-2004.html' title='03 March 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-1398233591668784815</id><published>2011-10-23T00:20:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-23T00:26:19.231-07:00</updated><title type='text'>10 Feb 2004</title><content type='html'>There is a great meteor shower raining down on the Earth.  I'm not scared or anxious, I'm excited to see it.  I have this crazy digital watch that shows the time of impact.  I go over to Suzie's, and I am excited to see Kayla.  There are a lot of people, and soon I leave.&lt;br /&gt;I am in water, the ocean, and it is swelling.  I am diving under the waves.  Then I am in the Subaru, and Brian is driving.  Jude, Christine, Jason and Betsy are there.  Betsy is trying to get into the care on the driver's side, even though there is room for her in the back.  She sits up front on my lap.  We go to this hotel, and have a suite on one of the top floors.  I am worried about the cost of the room, but there is no one at the counter to charge us, so it ends up not mattering, and we all watch the meteor's fall from the sky.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-1398233591668784815?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/1398233591668784815/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=1398233591668784815' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1398233591668784815'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1398233591668784815'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/10-feb-2004.html' title='10 Feb 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-8712884046478256193</id><published>2011-10-23T00:02:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-23T00:18:59.946-07:00</updated><title type='text'>4 Feb 2004</title><content type='html'>I am with Vida, Noah, Brian and Zach at Laura's dad's place.  We are there waiting for others.  Her parents leave on a trip.  Our group is just watching tv, so I go into the other room with Brian.  He falls asleep, so I start to masturbate with a dildo that looks like a pacifier.  Laura's step mom interrupts me; they have come back and they are fighting. Her dad sees almost oblivious to the step mom's ranting-she's preparing to leave him.&lt;br /&gt;We all get ready to leave, we go outside to wait for our ride.  I somehow get separated from the group.  I am heading for a main street when a Dachshund walks out from the ally.  I think he is so cute, and that Brian will love him.  There is no owner around, but the dog is wearing a collar.  It's night so I can't read it, I coax the dog under a light, which is in front of this house.  The dog takes off, up the stairs and into the house.&lt;br /&gt;I go after him.  When I get into the house I find that it is a bar, and the dog is now a young boy who is regal.  The boy is wearing a linen shirt.  An eruption of noise takes place.  The place is full of Mexican men, and they are going wild.  I leave the place, running, and go hide in a car, where there is a woman changing.  She is weirded out by my presence but says nothing when the guys are near.  Zach  sticks his head in and tells me that there are cops rounding everyone up.&lt;br /&gt;Now it's daylight, and I go back into the house.  It's empty, and flooded with light.  It reminds me of a New Orleans' style place.  The dog that was a boy is now a man, and he leads me to a table where there is a head dress, mask, and necklace.  I put them all on.  The man kisses my neck and when I'm done, he turns me around.  I feel transformed into some kind of goddess.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-8712884046478256193?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/8712884046478256193/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=8712884046478256193' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/8712884046478256193'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/8712884046478256193'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/4-feb-2004.html' title='4 Feb 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-6959208476798874814</id><published>2011-10-20T01:38:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-20T01:41:56.836-07:00</updated><title type='text'>6 Feb 2004</title><content type='html'>Brian joined the military and was away for two years.  I didn't trust the military, I was afraid they were going to change him. So I kept spying on them.&lt;br /&gt;One of the things that I saw was an office call a woman soldier in and she was all ditsy.  He gave her some pathetic order and then slapped her ass as she walked out.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-6959208476798874814?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/6959208476798874814/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=6959208476798874814' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6959208476798874814'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6959208476798874814'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/6-feb-2004.html' title='6 Feb 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-1311916804770261118</id><published>2011-10-20T01:37:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-20T01:37:49.668-07:00</updated><title type='text'>29 Jan 2004</title><content type='html'>I am searching for or heading towards an observatory.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-1311916804770261118?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/1311916804770261118/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=1311916804770261118' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1311916804770261118'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1311916804770261118'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/29-jan-2004.html' title='29 Jan 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-2166532004428859052</id><published>2011-10-20T01:35:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-20T01:36:39.392-07:00</updated><title type='text'>25 Jan 2004</title><content type='html'>There is a man.  I am hot and heavy for him and he also liked me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-2166532004428859052?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/2166532004428859052/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=2166532004428859052' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2166532004428859052'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2166532004428859052'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/25-jan-2004.html' title='25 Jan 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-2411331885377996018</id><published>2011-10-20T01:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-20T01:35:40.515-07:00</updated><title type='text'>24 Jan 2004</title><content type='html'>I am at a large house in a lush valley.  there are a bunch of people there and I know most of them.  The house is on a large plot of land, with a stream running through it.  Over several days I go walking  by the stream bed and each time there is some force that comes from the stream that scares me. &lt;br /&gt;On one of the days I go walking with Bill, Suzie and Graeme.  This time there is a pond by a stream.  We all come to a spot by the pond. Bill is sitting at a piano, and we are all singing "lean on me".  Afterwards we all lay down to nap in the warm sun and I say a blessing to protect us, and my fear is gone.  Bill is sitting at the piano in the stream, Suzie is laying on the other side of the pond and Graeme and I are laying on the grassy bank of the stream.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-2411331885377996018?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/2411331885377996018/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=2411331885377996018' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2411331885377996018'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2411331885377996018'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/24-jan-2004.html' title='24 Jan 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-5892121933340757755</id><published>2011-10-18T00:51:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-18T00:53:02.798-07:00</updated><title type='text'>21 Jan 2004</title><content type='html'>There is this big fat redneck, and he has monopolized all the stores in the area and he is a jerk to all the customers and a slime ball to the ladies.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-5892121933340757755?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/5892121933340757755/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=5892121933340757755' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/5892121933340757755'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/5892121933340757755'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/21-jan-2004.html' title='21 Jan 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4762817519731788004</id><published>2011-10-18T00:46:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-18T00:51:43.545-07:00</updated><title type='text'>17 Jan 2004</title><content type='html'>So many dreams: missing treasures, an old flag that Kayla was wearing, and a trunk Suzie had.&lt;br /&gt;Then another night I dreamt: Brian and I are supposed to go on a vacation and when it comes time to go he has decided not to go.  He is in he basement with Israel, and he wouldn't come out to talk with me.  I am very angry.  I want to break up with him, but know that saying it means it.  I am looking at this podium, like the Olympic award pyramid, with three tiers.  There is nothing on the first place tier, but on the two lower tiers there stands giant old trophies, and I place flowers on one side.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4762817519731788004?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4762817519731788004/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4762817519731788004' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4762817519731788004'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4762817519731788004'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/17-jan-2004.html' title='17 Jan 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4035169380178734744</id><published>2011-10-18T00:42:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-18T00:45:38.824-07:00</updated><title type='text'>12 Jan 2004</title><content type='html'>I am at this grocery store.  It's large with high ceilings and it's grey, dark, dingy.  There's a lot of steel around.  This is where the Angelo's employee party is being held.  I am dressed warm and am drinking heavily.  I wander from table to table socializing.  At one point Brian comes in and doesn't talk to me.  When I see him I aggressively flip him off while Liz is leading me to the back room to talk.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4035169380178734744?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4035169380178734744/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4035169380178734744' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4035169380178734744'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4035169380178734744'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/12-jan-2004.html' title='12 Jan 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4657199193816629158</id><published>2011-10-18T00:17:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-18T00:41:13.594-07:00</updated><title type='text'>11 Jan 2004</title><content type='html'>Dream #1:&lt;br /&gt;I'm on a road trip w/Annie, Heath and another.  We stop at this one place to eat.  Inside there is a man having sex with a younger woman, and she keeps getting blood splattered on her.  When they are done she goes in the bathroom and when she comes out she looks like a beauty queen.  One of the owner's sons is cute and we keep flirting.  Then we overhear that the family is part of the mafia, so we leave.  They are chasing us now.&lt;br /&gt;We are driving a large, older model station wagon, and they are driving a bus.  The mom is driving and we are weaving through the streets of a very hilly town.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dream #2:&lt;br /&gt;The world is some industrial place and my mother helps lead a revolution.  She is killed but I carry on.  We successfully overthrow the previous ruler, but his family lives.  I am in charge, but am very casual.  I don't want to kill the relatives but I know that they are planning to retaliate.  They make this batch of wine, and I know it's been tampered with, but I let them serve it.  Then I am one of the people who has drunk the wine and I can see what it's doing to everyone.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4657199193816629158?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4657199193816629158/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4657199193816629158' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4657199193816629158'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4657199193816629158'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/11-jan-2004.html' title='11 Jan 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-3736674876606491499</id><published>2011-10-15T21:31:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-15T21:53:32.403-07:00</updated><title type='text'>08 Jan 2004</title><content type='html'>It's evening and I'm walking in a large park in Denver. The city is louder than usual and in the park I find a stranded bear cub.  It's crying.  I go to it, cradle it, and take it back home where I warm the cub and feed it.  It's day and warm for a while.  Brian comes home and sees the cub.  He tells me that we can not keep the cub, that it can't stay.  I tell Brian that I would eventually call Animal Control, but for now I was watching the cub.  We are living in an apartment on Logan and Colfax, but it's this huge and spacious ground floor flat, with a decent sized garden.  There is at least one large tree in the garden.&lt;br /&gt;Soon after, it's evening.  Betsy and Jason come over for dinner.  They bring two big blonde dogs over, and the dogs immediately start to antagonize the cub, who becomes defensive.  I take the cub outside and lay it at the root of the tree, while the dogs stay inside. &lt;br /&gt;Now it's the next day and I'm in a hurry.  I leave without bringing the cub back in, though I don't realize it til later.  When I return, it is still my home, but the apartment building looks different.  The hallways are wide and there are tall ceilings.  There are tenants, my neighbors, and they are painting the hallways with large artistic murals, over the lime green walls.  The building is several stories tall and I go to the third floor into an apartment where a meeting is being held.&lt;br /&gt;Everyone there is female, and it' very loud.  I'm not really participating, and soon I leave.  I go to my own apartment but Brian is at work.  I step out onto Colfax in my underwear to get the paper.  A car full of women see me and they cheer me on.  I go back to my apartment where there are several guys.  One guy gives me an invitation to his party, 'hand delivered', so he's sure I will go.  I am trying my best to push him along his way and his companion is irritated at his shameless flirting.  Another guy is a midget, who is practically stalking me, and I keep forcefully telling him to get out.  He does not seem to hear me because he is almost in a trance while he declares his undying love for me.  I eventually pretend to drop something down the hall, and when he goes to get it, I close the door on him.  Shaken by all this I sneak out and go to meet Brian at work.  Sporadically through out the dream I remember the bear cub and become anxious, having visions of his fur being a hallow shell with the entire body inside having disappeared because I never got back to him.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-3736674876606491499?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/3736674876606491499/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=3736674876606491499' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3736674876606491499'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3736674876606491499'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/08-jan-2004.html' title='08 Jan 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-7292370556538350816</id><published>2011-10-15T21:20:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-15T21:28:48.086-07:00</updated><title type='text'>07 Jan 2004</title><content type='html'>I am at a friend's house.  There are a group of us at his parents place, somewhere in Park Hill.  It's a sunny day and there are lots of healthy vines growing over the windows and the light is speckling  as it passes into the house.  I am telling someone that I have seen this house many times.&lt;br /&gt;"I'd walk by it everyday," I say.  Later I return with the guy who's house it is.  We are hanging out with his little sister and mother.  We are sitting in the living room and I let him write something on my cheek with a Sharpie.  I go into the kitchen where his mother and another woman are talking.  I clean off what he wrote; some slogan about uneducated.  I stand quietly and listen to them talk.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-7292370556538350816?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/7292370556538350816/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=7292370556538350816' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7292370556538350816'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7292370556538350816'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/07-jan-2004.html' title='07 Jan 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-3384523539232844181</id><published>2011-10-15T21:09:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-15T21:19:03.706-07:00</updated><title type='text'>05 Jan 2004</title><content type='html'>It's warm out but there's fear of some sort of disaster.  I'm over at Annie's mom's place and everyone is asleep.  I grab a few things for safe keeping: a picture, a poem or the likes, maybe even a statue- all things with an emotional value, then I leave.  When I return, everyone is up, and I give them back their stuff, but no disaster happened.  There are many of my friends there.  Brian is there also, but he is not affectionate with me; he sits and watches tv.  Everyone joins him.  I'm antsy, I don't want to watch tv, so I leave to another room. &lt;br /&gt;Soon Seth comes in to talk to me.  We go outside and shortly after the gangs shows up with cocaine.  It's all choppy and I can't get it ground well.  It's taking me a long time and people are getting upset with me, so I through it to the next person, get up and leave.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-3384523539232844181?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/3384523539232844181/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=3384523539232844181' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3384523539232844181'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3384523539232844181'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/05-jan-2004.html' title='05 Jan 2004'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-7196053609072539922</id><published>2011-10-10T20:20:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-10T20:37:29.784-07:00</updated><title type='text'>4 Nov 2003</title><content type='html'>I am driving the old Jeep up on the north side of Colfax, trying to get to campus.  Kayla is in the car with me.  Now we are walking, first over the Colfax highway and then we use the underpass.  An officer stops us, and starts to examine the doohickey that I'm carrying.  Angela and Roxanne are there and they're talking about work and schedules.  I try to say something to them, but they are too far away.  Finally Kayla and I enter a store. &lt;br /&gt;Kayla has made some pants, and the shopkeeper buys them from her.  I am very proud, but I am not paying attention to her.  Instead I am engrossed in what I am doing.  Kayla comes over to me and shows me this pretty necklace that she wants, but its $320.  At one point, Tom and Jenn are there, buying presents for Cameron.  Jenn buys the pants that Kayla made.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-7196053609072539922?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/7196053609072539922/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=7196053609072539922' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7196053609072539922'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7196053609072539922'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/4-nov-2003.html' title='4 Nov 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-6034933295889491831</id><published>2011-10-10T20:13:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-10T20:20:09.120-07:00</updated><title type='text'>23 Oct 2003</title><content type='html'>ONE:&lt;br /&gt;Brian and I are living at the Dexter house.  It has snowed and everything is covered with an even layer cover it.  I wake up in the dream, and I see that Brian is not there.  I march out to the garage and open the door.  Brian is fully dressed and showered and working on something.  I'm upset that he showered without me, so I start to yell at him, yelling that I hate him, that he can go and fuck off. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;TWO:&lt;br /&gt;I am at a concert, on stage, and the singer has to leave.  I am there with the microphone, to announce the singer, so instead I just start singing myself.  At first I am nervous, but once I start to get into it, I do well and have a beautiful voice.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-6034933295889491831?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/6034933295889491831/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=6034933295889491831' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6034933295889491831'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6034933295889491831'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/23-oct-2003.html' title='23 Oct 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-2469171290235561677</id><published>2011-10-10T20:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-10T20:12:52.070-07:00</updated><title type='text'>21 Oct 2003</title><content type='html'>I am at Christine and Jude's place. I enter through the back, and hang out on the patio.  It's night, there are other people there too.  I let the dog out on to the patio,  the dog creeps me out.  I let it back in and it morphs into an old man wearing a wool sweater like a capitan.  He's saying something to me.  Joe is there consoling me because what the man says seems to upset me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-2469171290235561677?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/2469171290235561677/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=2469171290235561677' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2469171290235561677'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2469171290235561677'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/21-oct-2003.html' title='21 Oct 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-931795785722471896</id><published>2011-10-10T19:59:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-10T20:07:44.566-07:00</updated><title type='text'>19 Sept 2003</title><content type='html'>I am at a large indoor social function with a group of people I know.  I am talking to someone when Arnold Schwarzenegger interrupts, escorting me into an adjacent room.  He tells me in secrecy that he wants to become the president.  I get right to work, understanding that this is my business.  I am talking with him, brainstorming, but he looks only out the door, peeking, and hushing me.  I walk off, thinking away as though I were some sort of genius.&lt;br /&gt;Next thing, I am in a chair, outside, that is atop a thin column standing about two stories high, and there next to me is Laura.  Neither of us seems to notice.  I am focused on creating the currency of this to be presidency.  When I have finished, we head back in through a window.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-931795785722471896?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/931795785722471896/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=931795785722471896' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/931795785722471896'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/931795785722471896'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/19-sept-2003.html' title='19 Sept 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-405012870770357183</id><published>2011-10-08T19:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-08T19:09:18.225-07:00</updated><title type='text'>26 July 2003</title><content type='html'>Brian and I are to be wed, but one obstacle after another keeps interrupting.  In particular, one of the male Lemmons has a modified shot gun.  An officer arrives and stops the wedding on account of the gun.  I ask this relative to get rid of the firearm, but he makes the fool and claims ignorance, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;while&lt;/span&gt; holding the rifle and cleaning it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-405012870770357183?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/405012870770357183/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=405012870770357183' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/405012870770357183'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/405012870770357183'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/10/26-july-2003.html' title='26 July 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-6275545196290632097</id><published>2011-09-20T16:40:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-20T16:49:03.633-07:00</updated><title type='text'>30 Mar 2003</title><content type='html'>Last night:&lt;br /&gt;I'm participating in a race to first find certain items, and then place then in this empty house.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Two nights ago:&lt;br /&gt;I am living in a cabin with Brian and we are dressed like settlers.  The townsfolk are going to sacrifice me and the ghost in the cabin was going to inhabit my baby.  I kept protesting but it did me no good.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Awhile back:&lt;br /&gt;I am rerouting all the water and electricity in an old empty house.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-6275545196290632097?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/6275545196290632097/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=6275545196290632097' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6275545196290632097'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6275545196290632097'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/30-mar-2003.html' title='30 Mar 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4840941837854315927</id><published>2011-09-20T16:34:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-20T16:40:14.000-07:00</updated><title type='text'>16 Mar 2003</title><content type='html'>I am at this awesome thrift store with Francie and Suzie.  They have everything, and I really want to stay and look, but we don't have time.  So I return later with Brian and Joe.  When we come back I look around and although they have everything, I realize that there is really nothing that I want.  We're getting ready to leave and Brian goes to make a purchase.  At the register the clerk charges him more and Brian politely points it out, but the clerk slaps him.  Then the manager comes over and starts accusing Brian of misbehaving and starts to lead him downstairs.  I push the manager and we all run off.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4840941837854315927?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4840941837854315927/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4840941837854315927' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4840941837854315927'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4840941837854315927'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/16-mar-2003.html' title='16 Mar 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4077947564692238387</id><published>2011-09-20T16:26:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-20T16:34:39.240-07:00</updated><title type='text'>11 Mar 2003</title><content type='html'>I'm teaching at this house and I'm trying to do something.  The roof falls down.  There's a bird that gets caught in the crash and it's killed. I feel horrible and immediately rush over to the rubble pile and dig it out.  When I find it it's made out of ceramic, and the head has broken off from the body.  I fill both sides with dirt and put them together.  I'm in the front yard and am surrounded by evergreens.  I call out to the birds.  A flock of crows flies to the ceramic bird and takes it away.  the next morning I go out and the bird is alive again.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4077947564692238387?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4077947564692238387/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4077947564692238387' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4077947564692238387'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4077947564692238387'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/11-mar-2003.html' title='11 Mar 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-790510508827508493</id><published>2011-09-20T16:20:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-20T16:25:02.315-07:00</updated><title type='text'>04 Mar 2003</title><content type='html'>I am in the laundry room of the Dexter house.  I am sitting on a bed with Annie, confiding in her and her talking to me about my relationship with Brian, and how I don't like the way that it is going.  I'm not happy, and all the while we talk Jeff Clark and some other guy are carrying stuff out of the basement and into the backyard.  They are building something or perhaps reconstructing something.  Suzie gets home and I know she won't be happy.  She has this surprised look on her face and then she goes out back.  I just continue up the stairs.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-790510508827508493?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/790510508827508493/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=790510508827508493' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/790510508827508493'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/790510508827508493'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/04-mar-2003.html' title='04 Mar 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-8455516605313281486</id><published>2011-09-20T16:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-20T16:13:52.267-07:00</updated><title type='text'>20 Jan 2003</title><content type='html'>I've been turned into a vampire and so has my brother.  I'm still in high school and we go on a field trip to this restaurant. The owner/operators are the original vampires, and they serve all variety of vampire food.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-8455516605313281486?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/8455516605313281486/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=8455516605313281486' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/8455516605313281486'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/8455516605313281486'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/20-jan-2003.html' title='20 Jan 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-3722826500664017238</id><published>2011-09-20T16:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-20T16:11:34.224-07:00</updated><title type='text'>15 Jan 2003</title><content type='html'>There's a party at this house.  Brian and I go, our friends are already there.  Rather quickly I can't find Brian and I just go in circle after circle looking for him.  Finally I find him sleeping under his congo bags.&lt;br /&gt;The basement is more like old ruins with the earth all jagged and the cement/rocks upturned.  At one point. At one point there is worry of a spy on behalf of the host, and I am translating code.  After most people have left, there is only a few of us left, and in every room there is a ghost.&lt;br /&gt;Next thing I know the back door opens to a valley with a meandering river next to it.  It's day time.  Liz and I decide to go swim in the river.  There's this rather disagreeable fellow who keeps telling us about the dangers of the river and it's current.  When it's time to get out we are no longer at the house but rather in the wilderness, and we are on a road trip.  Then I'm in the Jeep, it's night, and I'm waiting outside a grocery store to collaborate with Annie.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-3722826500664017238?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/3722826500664017238/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=3722826500664017238' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3722826500664017238'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3722826500664017238'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/15-jan-2003.html' title='15 Jan 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-1040293007229669248</id><published>2011-09-20T15:51:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-20T16:00:39.777-07:00</updated><title type='text'>14 Jan 2003</title><content type='html'>I'm with Graeme and we are at a lake or stream.  I have a feeling that I am returning something to a safe place.  We cross a bridge and I look at my reflection in the water.  I notice that it is more than a reflection and although it doesn't talk, it does move when I touch it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-1040293007229669248?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/1040293007229669248/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=1040293007229669248' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1040293007229669248'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1040293007229669248'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/14-jan-2003.html' title='14 Jan 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4035447419105312138</id><published>2011-09-20T15:49:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-20T15:50:40.496-07:00</updated><title type='text'>10 Jan 2003</title><content type='html'>I am at the airport with the gang and Jessica is writing something down.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4035447419105312138?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4035447419105312138/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4035447419105312138' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4035447419105312138'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4035447419105312138'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/10-jan-2003.html' title='10 Jan 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-8246509607495705740</id><published>2011-09-11T11:10:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-11T11:12:14.453-07:00</updated><title type='text'>09 Jan 2003</title><content type='html'>I'm in Hawai'i with a group of people.  At one point Suzie and Liz hook up.  Eric Caplan is there and he keeps sticking things up his ass.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-8246509607495705740?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/8246509607495705740/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=8246509607495705740' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/8246509607495705740'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/8246509607495705740'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/09-jan-2003.html' title='09 Jan 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4728315240495789432</id><published>2011-09-11T11:03:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-11T11:10:10.831-07:00</updated><title type='text'>08 Jan 2003</title><content type='html'>It's evening, and I am at a party in a very large house.  I know most of the people from work.  Later in the night I have to hide because something is after me.  I am hiding under a bed and I peek out to see this girl hunting me, but the homeowner is trying to protect me. &lt;br /&gt;At one point in the dream I see the entity posses someone, and at another point in the dream someone tells me that my parents are dead.  I am standing on some stairs, looking out the window at some boy, who is watching the house and riding his bike in circles in the driveway.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4728315240495789432?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4728315240495789432/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4728315240495789432' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4728315240495789432'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4728315240495789432'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/08-jan-2003.html' title='08 Jan 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-7966808566109781453</id><published>2011-09-11T10:55:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-11T11:03:13.122-07:00</updated><title type='text'>07 Jan 2003</title><content type='html'>It's evening and I'm with Askimbo.  We are driving in Zack's van to a party in the hills.  We've got a bunch of coke.  The house the party is at is small and has two sections.  Laura's there and we're hanging out.  I can't remember anyone's names, but they all seem to know mine. &lt;br /&gt;Dan from the Argonaut is there, and I ask him if I could still come back to work.  Dan starts to flirt with me, telling me that I might need to convince him.  I'm standing on the inside of the hallway kitchen while Dan is on the outside, sort of blocking me from the party.  I have a plastic cup that I set dowm as I see someone behind him, and I motion to them. Zach, Dave, Anthony and I sneak away to do coke and right as we finish almost the entire party comes in.  Zack is especially annoyed, so we head out.  The light is a blueish grey.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-7966808566109781453?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/7966808566109781453/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=7966808566109781453' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7966808566109781453'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7966808566109781453'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/07-jan-2003.html' title='07 Jan 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4963759399764718323</id><published>2011-09-11T10:51:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-11T10:55:46.192-07:00</updated><title type='text'>05 Jan 2003</title><content type='html'>I am in a house that belongs to an old lady.  I am there with several of my friends, and they are watching me balancing on a window, trying to hold it open while also picking objects out of a box.  The window is on the third or fourth floor and there is a significant gap between the floor and the wall where the window is.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4963759399764718323?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4963759399764718323/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4963759399764718323' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4963759399764718323'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4963759399764718323'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/05-jan-2003.html' title='05 Jan 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-1839942600977970556</id><published>2011-09-11T10:47:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-11T10:49:24.710-07:00</updated><title type='text'>03 Jan 2003</title><content type='html'>I am at a Woodstock style concert that is put on by aliens.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-1839942600977970556?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/1839942600977970556/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=1839942600977970556' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1839942600977970556'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1839942600977970556'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/03-jan-2003.html' title='03 Jan 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4773805263771416020</id><published>2011-09-11T10:36:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-11T10:38:40.784-07:00</updated><title type='text'>02 Jan 2003</title><content type='html'>He regresado a escuala.  Vida y Annie estan alli tambien.  Mi profesor y yo tenemos  relaciones.  El profesor va al bano en la sala de clase mientras everyone was presenting stuff.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4773805263771416020?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4773805263771416020/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4773805263771416020' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4773805263771416020'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4773805263771416020'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/02-jan-2003.html' title='02 Jan 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-3259327648896617653</id><published>2011-09-11T10:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-11T10:04:18.654-07:00</updated><title type='text'>27 Nov 2002</title><content type='html'>I am at the Dexter house.  At the side door, there are two young boys, one white and one black.  They want to sell me something, but I tell them no.  Then the black boy pulls out a bright pink water gun.  He doesn't do anything with it, but I get scared and call the police, but they don't do anything about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been having these dreams lately where I am being invaded, about to be invaded or that I need to defend my house.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-3259327648896617653?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/3259327648896617653/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=3259327648896617653' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3259327648896617653'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3259327648896617653'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/27-nov-2002.html' title='27 Nov 2002'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-7232778366770409745</id><published>2011-09-06T23:09:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-06T23:12:32.029-07:00</updated><title type='text'>20 July 2007</title><content type='html'>I'm on vacation with Suzie, Shari and Kayla.  The Clark family is also in the area.  David comes into our house brandishing some sort of weapon.  He looks like the father of the Lowe Family (from Branson, MO that played that set at the Red Lion).  He's amped up and all sweaty.  He tells us we're going to do something with him.  It's not something dangerous, it's just not something we're all into.  At first I try to stand up to him, but he won't reason, so I bolt downstairs and to the neighbors to use the phone.  The neighbors let me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-7232778366770409745?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/7232778366770409745/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=7232778366770409745' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7232778366770409745'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7232778366770409745'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/20-july-2007.html' title='20 July 2007'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-3844053115840902595</id><published>2011-09-06T22:57:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-06T23:08:46.559-07:00</updated><title type='text'>9 Jan 2006</title><content type='html'>I'm going to the Angelo's Xmas party.  When Brian and I get there only the patio is set, everything else is gone.  Tom is in the kitchen sweeping the empty floor.  They pass out cards and stuff, then we go to another party. &lt;br /&gt;We're at a house; Heath, Judd, Seth and others are there.  This older man with very red hair shows up.  He's looking for some of the cards we had been given.  I take him to a bookshelf, and pull out this old book. It has a deep blue cover with gold writing, Arabic or Hebrew.  There's a sword, maybe two on the cover also.  Something falls out of the book.&lt;br /&gt;Later it's day and Seth's neighbors need to borrow Judd's car to go get some acid someone else had left somewhere else.  It's kind of a fiasco.  I go to lay out some coke, and Seth pitches in also.  As I'm breaking it up, I notice that he has more left than I do, and it bothers me.  Then other people notice that it's out and want some.&lt;br /&gt;Another part of the dream: I leave work for my break, but I don't tell anyone.  I go to the gas station, and I see my mom there.  We chat and then I realize that I've been gone for about half an hour.  Earlier in the dream I was going somewhere and I had to get on the highway.  In front of me was a horse, saddled with no rider, slowly entering the highway and then exiting the next exit ahead of me, slowly and maybe confused.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-3844053115840902595?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/3844053115840902595/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=3844053115840902595' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3844053115840902595'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3844053115840902595'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/9-jan-2006.html' title='9 Jan 2006'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-2799230937527876273</id><published>2011-09-06T22:56:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-06T22:57:08.431-07:00</updated><title type='text'>12 Dec 2005</title><content type='html'>I dreamt that I was living some place, in a house, and that I had lost both Brian and Suzie.  I was anxious, fearful, sad and confused.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-2799230937527876273?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/2799230937527876273/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=2799230937527876273' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2799230937527876273'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2799230937527876273'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/12-dec-2005.html' title='12 Dec 2005'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-7836108996928731390</id><published>2011-09-06T22:43:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-06T22:55:46.792-07:00</updated><title type='text'>11 Dec 2005</title><content type='html'>A few nights ago I dreamt that there was a baracade in my house with all these people trying to get away from some mad man who is after me.  He was tricky/magical and kept attacking me.  There were dogs and he morphed into one.  Then there was another one, a black dog or wolf.  It stood behind me and I was too afraid to look at it.  When I did finally turn around, I had my eyes covered, and was vaguely growling at the animal.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The night before that I dreamt that Angie (Alicia's ex) made some damage claim to United Way, and I was sent to investigate, similar to an insurance claim.  I'm following her around for a while until she slips up and says something proving her claim fraudulent.  I end it there and leave, which upsets Angie greatly.  The United Way she had the accident at sat on top of a small hill, had a steep sloping front garden that was a luscious grass, with two plateaus on the hill accented by huge grey slabs of rock.  There were people doing yoga out front, and the entire atmosphere of the place was Eastern decor and New Age jive.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then there was a dream where I was hiding out in a prep school.  Later I went to a grocery store with mostly bare shelves.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-7836108996928731390?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/7836108996928731390/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=7836108996928731390' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7836108996928731390'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7836108996928731390'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/11-dec-2005.html' title='11 Dec 2005'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-2400649046482165509</id><published>2011-09-06T22:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-06T22:43:28.306-07:00</updated><title type='text'>?? Unk 2005</title><content type='html'>I'm back in Hawai'i, for a day.  Suzie has a job interview, so I go with her.  I'm in this store, it has books, trinkets and maps.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-2400649046482165509?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/2400649046482165509/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=2400649046482165509' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2400649046482165509'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2400649046482165509'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/unk-2005_06.html' title='?? Unk 2005'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-2722445058802067196</id><published>2011-09-06T22:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-06T22:42:16.170-07:00</updated><title type='text'>?? Unk 2005</title><content type='html'>There's an orphan girl, a good musician, maybe 8.  She still lives in the house of her parents.  Everything's white, then some shit hit some fan and there are agents after her and her grown gang of friends.&lt;br /&gt;They are hiding in the house, looking for something hidden, beneath the walls and floor boards, but now everything is bare wood, something dark, sort of mahogany.  Something about a clarinet.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-2722445058802067196?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/2722445058802067196/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=2722445058802067196' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2722445058802067196'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2722445058802067196'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/unk-2005.html' title='?? Unk 2005'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-954426165565310986</id><published>2011-09-06T22:31:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-06T22:36:55.013-07:00</updated><title type='text'>14 Aug 2005</title><content type='html'>I'm on a vacation or trip somewhere and I'm with my family.  There's this black woman who has two small kids in a carrier.  She gives them to us or makes us take them.  For a while I'm on a bus with people I went to school with.  then I'm in an airport customs area, and there are the kids in the carrier again.  There are tons of people in customs, and I have to wait a long time and talk to many different agents. When asked about my job, I'm some sort of paper shuffler.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There was an entire other dream that I don't remember now.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-954426165565310986?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/954426165565310986/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=954426165565310986' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/954426165565310986'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/954426165565310986'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/14-aug-2005.html' title='14 Aug 2005'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-256158496266682805</id><published>2011-09-06T22:20:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-06T22:31:32.725-07:00</updated><title type='text'>12 Aug 2003</title><content type='html'>There's an apartment where this little boy was killed.  In the basement he was chopped up.  We keep seeing him.  At first he manifests out of poop, then later we can just see him. &lt;br /&gt;I'm weirded out to begin, but soon we just start talking, and he goes places with us.  Now there are ghosts everywhere, and all these people are dying maybe.  We are at a hotel and the escalator is out, in that it doesn't go to the ground, yet people are going off it.  At the end things are resolved and I am sad that I won't get to see the boy again, but he and I know that we'll always be around.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-256158496266682805?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/256158496266682805/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=256158496266682805' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/256158496266682805'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/256158496266682805'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/12-aug-2003_06.html' title='12 Aug 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-7716858109240028172</id><published>2011-09-06T17:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-06T17:52:40.717-07:00</updated><title type='text'>14 Dec 2003</title><content type='html'>I'm at this resort/conference.  I have all the money that I've collected during the day, and I'm sorting it out.  This guy comes up to me and asks if I have any change.  I'm sitting at a round table and I hover over he coins and tell him no.  I'm protective and defensive.&lt;br /&gt;Later, these rich preppy girls arrive and they sit at the table I just left.  I notice something I had left under the table, and quickly grab it before they get all sat down.  The alpha girl all of a sudden flips out on me, saying that I touched her foot.  I feel sort of like a hermit, and her 'popular' look makes me uncomfortable.  I snap at her and then sulk off, coveting the currency I am carrying.&lt;br /&gt;I'm very annoyed by what the girls did, and as I'm walking back to my room, I pass through this open market, that is also the classrooms.&lt;br /&gt;I'm taken back, in a good way, by the woodworking teacher's tent.  There are furs, belts and intricate crafts all over the place.  In the background, the popular girls are degrading it, and I just walk on through.  I get to my room and Betsy, plus some other people are there.  I tell Betsy what happened with the girls, and she gets an idea. &lt;br /&gt;Later we stumble into the laundry room.  Betsy goes in, bites the foot of the girl who yelled at me, and then bolts, with all of us laughing.  That night, I meet the popular girls at the woodworking tent.  They release the teacher's prized pet lizard; it's bright yellow all over, has a rounded diamond shaped head and a thicker paddle like tail.  The lizard crawls on me for awhile, and then it finally bites my finger.  The girls all laugh hard at me while the lizard is crawling on me.&lt;br /&gt;The next morning I go to the teacher and tattle on the girls, informing him that they had messed with his pet lizard.  The teacher goes off on the girls in front of everyone, and I smirk with content.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-7716858109240028172?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/7716858109240028172/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=7716858109240028172' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7716858109240028172'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7716858109240028172'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/14-dec-2003.html' title='14 Dec 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-2552995436330232543</id><published>2011-09-05T21:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-05T21:47:42.085-07:00</updated><title type='text'>26 Nov 2003</title><content type='html'>Dream 1:&lt;br /&gt;Brian and I go to this party.  Crystal is there and she keeps introducing Brian, but not me.  Then we go to another party with Crystal.  This place I have been before; I am talking with the woman who lives there-about shoes or something.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dream 2:&lt;br /&gt;There is a pool next to some woman's house, across from the library on Dexter.  My hat accidentally flies into her pool, so I go in to get it.  She sees me, and is suspicious.  She lets me get my hat, but tells me not to come back.  For some reason I keep ending up there, even though I don't mean to.  Each time I sneak out right before she sees me.  The last time it happened I meet a group of four people on the opposite sidewalk.  We are conversing and all the while I am dressed in my swimsuit and bath robe.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-2552995436330232543?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/2552995436330232543/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=2552995436330232543' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2552995436330232543'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2552995436330232543'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/26-nov-2003.html' title='26 Nov 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-5531748836136415778</id><published>2011-09-05T21:32:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-05T21:37:33.418-07:00</updated><title type='text'>25 Nov 2003</title><content type='html'>I am playing card games with Angelo's people.  We are at Jessica's parent's house.  I am supposed to be delivering pizzas, but I'm not doing it, so Brian steps in.  We are on 23rd close to Dexter.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-5531748836136415778?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/5531748836136415778/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=5531748836136415778' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/5531748836136415778'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/5531748836136415778'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/25-nov-2003.html' title='25 Nov 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4485107954916925042</id><published>2011-09-05T21:24:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-05T21:32:02.419-07:00</updated><title type='text'>23 Nov 2003 #2</title><content type='html'>I'm on a trip in my car across the country and I end up at some beach, camping out.  The local high school kids are having a race, and before the race starts I go wade in the water with others.  As I'm getting my suntan lotion, I notice this boy who has been flirting with me, try to access the data on my laptop.  I am running demo software, so there is nothing there.  The suntan lotion had a long story on the bottle about someone who tries to use light suntan lotion, but not enough so he ends up having to use prescription pills. &lt;br /&gt;The night before the race, I'm in the downtown area, with two of the girls who are going to run, and one larger black gentleman.  The girls have Hispanic names.  There's a teacher I run into who is drinking a cappachino.  Earlier in the dream someone else tries to tap into my computer, but again, it's running on a demo.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4485107954916925042?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4485107954916925042/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4485107954916925042' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4485107954916925042'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4485107954916925042'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/23-nov-2003-2.html' title='23 Nov 2003 #2'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-1258919106680783355</id><published>2011-09-05T21:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-05T21:24:36.288-07:00</updated><title type='text'>23 Nov 2003 #1</title><content type='html'>I'm hostessing at Angelo's, but the entrance if at the end of the alley.  I'm not doing a very good job-I keep walking out to look for people.  There's this guy standing behind a brick pillar.  He's being weird to me, I ask him what he wants, he says nothing, but he still lingers around.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-1258919106680783355?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/1258919106680783355/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=1258919106680783355' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1258919106680783355'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1258919106680783355'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/23-nov-2003.html' title='23 Nov 2003 #1'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-8735058714127573904</id><published>2011-09-05T21:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-05T21:16:05.241-07:00</updated><title type='text'>19 Nov 2003</title><content type='html'>There are these two guys that I'm alternatively kissing.  The first one I like a lot, and we kiss deeply, but he has to go.  While he is gone I am in a large office lobby.  I am with a girlfriend who has a camera.  I go over to the other guy, who's sitting at the reception desk.  I kiss on him for a minute while my friend records it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-8735058714127573904?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/8735058714127573904/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=8735058714127573904' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/8735058714127573904'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/8735058714127573904'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/19-nov-2003.html' title='19 Nov 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-3516658291825777994</id><published>2011-09-05T21:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-05T21:11:33.382-07:00</updated><title type='text'>11 Nov 2003</title><content type='html'>I'm a teacher's assistant at an elementary school.  There is a problem, or a problem child, that gets handed off to me.  For some reason I think it's evil, so I leave it with someone else.  The hallways are long with tall ceilings and red lockers.  It's dark.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-3516658291825777994?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/3516658291825777994/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=3516658291825777994' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3516658291825777994'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3516658291825777994'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/11-nov-2003.html' title='11 Nov 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-1940458840677139106</id><published>2011-09-05T20:55:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-05T21:04:21.253-07:00</updated><title type='text'>?? Unk 2003</title><content type='html'>I'm at school.  In one of my classes the teacher and assistant start to make out in front of the entire class.  I feel annoyed. &lt;br /&gt;In the next class the teacher mentions something I said earlier about me preferring one math class over another, and that I recommended the former.  This preppy blonde girl starts crying because she took said math class and failed, and consequently she couldn't be on the cheerleading squad.  The people in the class are upset at me and are yelling.  I'm taken back and I feel hurt.&lt;br /&gt;When class is over, I walk out with a couple of guys.  One looks like Mike (of Mike and Nancy), and the other like Lee (from elementary school).  I'm rambling because I'm embarassed; I'm trying to explain myself and I'm putting the preppy girl down.  Mike chimes in that he doesn't like some people in the class.  I ask who.&lt;br /&gt;We are getting onto an escalator that is going down.  It is silver and seems like a tunnel shaft into the building.  Mike names a few people, then looks at me square in the eye and says, "and you."&lt;br /&gt;I am floored, scared and sad.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-1940458840677139106?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/1940458840677139106/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=1940458840677139106' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1940458840677139106'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1940458840677139106'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/unk-2003_5490.html' title='?? Unk 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4635355225997084100</id><published>2011-09-05T20:49:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-05T20:52:09.296-07:00</updated><title type='text'>?? Unk 2003</title><content type='html'>There's an anthropology meeting at my house. We're talking about what's in houses.  Now I'm at the store.  Several of my friends are there and so are these porn stars, advertising their movies.  Then I'm at a bbq at my place.  There are a lot of people, we are talking and drinking.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4635355225997084100?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4635355225997084100/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4635355225997084100' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4635355225997084100'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4635355225997084100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/unk-2003_05.html' title='?? Unk 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-3749402618321241362</id><published>2011-09-05T20:40:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-05T20:49:27.566-07:00</updated><title type='text'>12 Sept 2003</title><content type='html'>I'm in this futuristic city.  All the buildings are tall and there are walkways connecting them.  There is also a lot of activity on the ground. I start out in a hotel or dorm and there is a pool down below.  There is an academic feel to this place; there are teachers and administrators all over. I am with a group of people and we are running up and down the halls and in and out of the rooms.  We go down to the very crowded pool. &lt;br /&gt;I go back to the towers and meet with Annie and Vida.  We're walking around, and we find this girl dressed in oversize overalls.  We start to talk with her and she accompanies us.  I'm not sure what happens in between, but next thing she starts to disappear, after she warned us, or informed us who she was.&lt;br /&gt;We are on the roof and we notice all these pods falling into the city.  They are aliens and they are landing.  I see a fade into one of the aliens and when it fades out of the alien it is on the ground level.  Things are dingy, and it is in an alley.  I appear with three others at the mouth of the alley.  We notice the alien and press against the wall.  The fourth person stares stupefied and scared at the approaching alien and is taken.  Then the alien walks right past us.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-3749402618321241362?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/3749402618321241362/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=3749402618321241362' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3749402618321241362'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3749402618321241362'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/12-sept-2003.html' title='12 Sept 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-2154640403549502056</id><published>2011-09-05T20:38:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-05T20:40:00.079-07:00</updated><title type='text'>9 Sept 2003</title><content type='html'>I'm with a group of people I know.  We are all in this big log cabin, and we are cleaning it out, reorganizing.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-2154640403549502056?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/2154640403549502056/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=2154640403549502056' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2154640403549502056'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2154640403549502056'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/9-sept-2003.html' title='9 Sept 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-2258172437185985665</id><published>2011-09-05T20:31:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-05T20:38:55.638-07:00</updated><title type='text'>12 Aug 2003</title><content type='html'>Pt. 1&lt;br /&gt;I'm in a cabin on a mountain.  I have esp.  I'm drawing what's going on.&lt;br /&gt;Now I'm in the city, in a small apartment.  In the alley I see all this cool stuff in the dumpsters, and I want them, but I don't have the room for them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Pt. 2&lt;br /&gt;I'm with some people and there is a flood.  We are all working together and there is this hot guy.  I want to get with him, but he goes after one of my friends.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Pt.3&lt;br /&gt;There is a group of people I keep running into.  I know some of them.  They bust in w/o knocking, and I find out they are friends of Alyssa's.  Later Tom takes us to a weird restaurant.  There's all this pornography on the walls and the bathrooms are just stalls with drains in the floor.  Earlier, I'm running from something.  I enter this high school in the midst of a pep rally.  They all start chasing me.  I have something that angers people.  Finally they change their minds and let me go.  I go to Bill and Debra's.  Someone has recently passed, and now they have all this swank stuff.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-2258172437185985665?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/2258172437185985665/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=2258172437185985665' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2258172437185985665'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2258172437185985665'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/12-aug-2003.html' title='12 Aug 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-2063685103872580181</id><published>2011-09-05T20:20:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-05T20:28:46.686-07:00</updated><title type='text'>?? Unk 2003</title><content type='html'>I'm in school again and I have a class with Roberto.  The class is in a large auditorium.  Roberto calls me up front and to me he tells this story of a girl who came before me, and of her story, her heartbreak at the hands of some unnamed gentleman.  After he finished I say: "and now we see the other half.&lt;br /&gt;I walk up to the landing and try to pull myself up on the bar.  Once I'm up there I stay for awhile, but me cuesta mucho trabajo getting up there, so I say to myself that is what I need to work on.  Once I'm down, for some reason, I go with a classmate to his house.  He's got to get his kid.  We go outside and it is sunny and very bright.  There's snow everywhere but it's not too cold out.  I chit chat with some women while my classmate cleans off his car. &lt;br /&gt;Finally we go, and although it isn't far, it's a whole other climate.  My classmate lives in the mountains, in a large cabin.  His boy is playing outside.  It's warm, sunny, and dry.  We get out of the car and he goes to his kid while I go inside another, smaller screened in cabin.  It's empty.  Soon after this guy creeps up to the door.  For some reason I think he's going to attack, so I try to hide, but I do a poor job and he sees me.  So I just get up and go outside with him, but my classmate comes and chases the man away.  Then he hands me an urgent letter.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-2063685103872580181?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/2063685103872580181/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=2063685103872580181' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2063685103872580181'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2063685103872580181'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/unk-2003.html' title='?? Unk 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-450617782588642591</id><published>2011-09-04T21:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-04T21:54:41.864-07:00</updated><title type='text'>8 May 2003</title><content type='html'>I'm with a large group of people.  We're at this country mansion and the owners show us this movie about a haunted house, then they give us a test on it.  Afterwords everyone can go out and about.  Joe and Brian are there.  Adjacent to the place is a big field with a stream through it. I go walking in it, but then something starts to chase me.  I run and hide in the stream under, the water.  I look up through the water and there is Death. &lt;br /&gt;I get scared so I close my eyes. The stream then becomes a time machine looking glass.  When I open my eyes I can see out upon the field and house.  It's long ago and the homeowners are there, alive, tilling the field.  Then the water ripples and I am back in my own time.  I get out of the stream and bolt back to the house.  I go to our room and start packing.  Brian comes in, I ask him where Joe is and he says that he already took Joe home.  I tell Brian to finish packing quickly, cause we are gonna go!&lt;br /&gt;As we are packing, the homeowner ghosts knock on the door and come in.  The woman get ready to speak when the alarm goes off.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-450617782588642591?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/450617782588642591/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=450617782588642591' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/450617782588642591'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/450617782588642591'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/8-may-2003.html' title='8 May 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-2797426918119263705</id><published>2011-09-04T21:42:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-04T21:42:45.497-07:00</updated><title type='text'>23 April 2003</title><content type='html'>I'm traveling through space, going to all these different planets.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-2797426918119263705?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/2797426918119263705/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=2797426918119263705' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2797426918119263705'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2797426918119263705'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/23-april-2003.html' title='23 April 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-8982435974146015576</id><published>2011-09-04T21:13:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-04T21:41:45.689-07:00</updated><title type='text'>18 April 2003</title><content type='html'>I'm jogging along a parkway.  It's night and I come upon a house.  I think it is where Israel lives, it's a simple one story.  I open the door and walk in.  There is a hallway, with a few pictures on the wall, an end table here and there, and another door.  I open it to find another corridor.  After weaving my way through doors and halls, I enter a room where my extended family and Suzie are opening presents and celebrating something.  Tracy is on the floor handing presents out. &lt;br /&gt;I stay for a while. It's daytime.  The room is flooded with light, and warm.  After a while, this man in his mid 30's shows up.  He is solemn, wearing grey, looking grey.  He is the homeowner, and I begin to notice that it is in fact a mansion.  The man asks his daughter to come with him for a moment, and Suzie, Tracy and I accompany the two to a large elevator.&lt;br /&gt;I don't know if we were going up or going down, but this man tells his daughter that he doesn't approve of what she wants to do with her life (something vocational).  He wants her to take over the family business, which he took over after his father.  I interject and I introduce myself.  I can't remember what I said, but it was something along the lines that he needs to look into himself and heal himself so he can be happy with his daughter.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The next dream starts with me emerging from that very same elevator with some short bald guy.  We are in a laboratory, in a mansion, and it's day.  The bald guy takes me to a scientist.  They are working on some sex machine, or experiment, or something.  The bald man leaves, and I am left with this young man who is buff, tan, hairless and otherwise attractive.  He lays down, and I am supposed to have sex with him, but instead I kiss him on the forehead, massage him and look at him.  The other women wouldn't do that, so he becomes enamored with me.  While we are hugging and making out, I see my reflection through my hair, and I think how unattractive I am.  At that moment, the guy tells me that I am the most beautiful woman he has known.  We decide to free all the women now that the bald guy was gone.&lt;br /&gt;Next thing I know I'm in this old house, with a lot of people, mostly women, moving in and out.  As I come down the stairs, they split: traditionally, one side for the help, and one side for the owners.  I decide to go down the help's side, and I end up sitting out on the stoop.   It's night, and I look out over the city.  There is a playground next door and kids are playing.  A pink truck pulls up and Annie gets out.  Even though she's all dolled up, she seems sad.  She knows the kids, and they are sad that she's leaving.  And then I think that maybe I hadn't done the best thing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-8982435974146015576?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/8982435974146015576/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=8982435974146015576' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/8982435974146015576'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/8982435974146015576'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/18-april-2003.html' title='18 April 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-6217268553097717028</id><published>2011-09-04T19:35:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-04T19:46:37.415-07:00</updated><title type='text'>14 April 2003</title><content type='html'>It's night and winter.  I am just arriving back to Denver.  I have a lot of baggage that is difficult to carry.  I wait for Brian, but he never shows, so I catch the bus.  It's the 15, and it's crowded.  I pull the cord to get off at Birch, but the bus doesn't stop.  Then I try to catch another bus going back the same way, but it turns into a hoopla.  I end up walking home, carrying all the baggage.  I'm angry and it's all focused on Brian. &lt;br /&gt;When I get to the house where we live, there is some sort of stand off.  Anthony and a few others are inside, keeping everyone else out.  They let me in and I go upstairs to my room.  There Brian is, wearing a costume, dressed as a prince, and asleep.  I tell him all my troubles in getting back.  He apologizes, yet does not appear to be affected in any way by what I am telling him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-6217268553097717028?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/6217268553097717028/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=6217268553097717028' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6217268553097717028'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6217268553097717028'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/14-april-2003.html' title='14 April 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-8387684368290552715</id><published>2011-09-04T19:29:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-04T19:34:59.812-07:00</updated><title type='text'>3 April 2003</title><content type='html'>I go to a party at a mansion.  There are many people, with many kids too.  I'm sitting watching the kids stand up and talk about stuff.  It's very humorous.  Professor Dore is there and I go to find Suzie to tell her about how funny it was.  I find her in a hallway with lots of lockers and she's leaving.&lt;br /&gt;The next morning I return to the place to get something I left the night before.  The owner is an older sleeze-o.  He tries to keep me there, to trick me into staying, but I get out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-8387684368290552715?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/8387684368290552715/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=8387684368290552715' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/8387684368290552715'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/8387684368290552715'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/3-april-2003.html' title='3 April 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-848553953827505036</id><published>2011-09-04T19:24:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-04T19:28:47.318-07:00</updated><title type='text'>10 March 2003</title><content type='html'>I'm at a party at Laura and Jenn's house, but I live there also.  It's a very dirty party.  I'm standing by the beer barrel and it smells really awful.  I leave.  I go to this Mega Mart store and there are people in it, but all the lights are out. &lt;br /&gt;Eventually the lights come back on and I find Suzie, Shari and Kayla.  As they leave the store Suzie is eating these yellow flowers.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-848553953827505036?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/848553953827505036/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=848553953827505036' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/848553953827505036'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/848553953827505036'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/10-march-2003.html' title='10 March 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-5089573200987643335</id><published>2011-09-04T19:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-04T19:16:57.686-07:00</updated><title type='text'>25 Feb 2003 #2</title><content type='html'>I'm standing on the street, looking at a dumpster in the alley.  There are three or four unicorns in it playing together.  This old lady walks up from behind me to the dumpster.  She tells me that you have to stir up the unicorns to get them to do any good.  She gets in the dumpster and pushes them out.  They playfully leap and bound away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-5089573200987643335?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/5089573200987643335/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=5089573200987643335' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/5089573200987643335'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/5089573200987643335'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/25-feb-2003-2.html' title='25 Feb 2003 #2'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-483667462071982481</id><published>2011-09-04T18:59:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-04T19:11:02.869-07:00</updated><title type='text'>25 Feb 2003 #1</title><content type='html'>Jessica is over at the apartment and she is playing a computer game, all night long.  I go to sleep, and she stays up.  I keep waking up so as not to miss her when she leaves.  Each time I wake up the room is lit by the glow of the computer.&lt;br /&gt;There's a cat in the place.  It's long, skinny and black.  There are tons of plants also, of all sizes and types.  The cat keeps getting into the plants and is tracking dirt everywhere.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-483667462071982481?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/483667462071982481/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=483667462071982481' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/483667462071982481'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/483667462071982481'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/25-feb-2003-1.html' title='25 Feb 2003 #1'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4960683777341549977</id><published>2011-09-04T18:54:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-04T18:59:31.248-07:00</updated><title type='text'>24 Feb 2003</title><content type='html'>I am living in this dorm room/apartment building.  Liz comes over to visit and she has with her this old picture of her and her brother playing together.  Soon Liz leaves and I leave shortly after.  When I get where I am going I am told that Liz has died.  I start sobbing, so much so that I go back home.&lt;br /&gt;There I see the picture and start sobbing again, because I was the last to see her.  Brian is there, but he's playing a hand held video game.  He's annoyed by my crying.  I go downstairs to do laundry and am still sobbing.  There's this tall guy and he takes my hand and holds it.  He tells me that it'll be alright, and he calms me down.  Then I go to the grocery store and am constantly reminded of Liz, so I start sobbing again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4960683777341549977?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4960683777341549977/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4960683777341549977' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4960683777341549977'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4960683777341549977'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/24.html' title='24 Feb 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-7114288219432153018</id><published>2011-09-04T18:50:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-04T18:53:32.939-07:00</updated><title type='text'>22 Feb 2003</title><content type='html'>First Dream:&lt;br /&gt;I am hostessing at Angelo's.  The restaurant is set up for large parties and is fancier than usual.  I sit and talk with this man for awhile, ignoring my responsibilities.  The place starts to fill up quickly.  When I finally begin to work I am overwhelmed by it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Second Dream:&lt;br /&gt;I drive a SUV and I offer Diana a ride home, but then she starts having me go to all these places that are out of the way.  I am annoyed with her yet I say nothing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-7114288219432153018?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/7114288219432153018/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=7114288219432153018' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7114288219432153018'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/7114288219432153018'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/22-feb-2003.html' title='22 Feb 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-2490142786475363773</id><published>2011-09-04T18:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-04T18:50:11.895-07:00</updated><title type='text'>21 Feb 2003</title><content type='html'>I am in NYC visiting Felicity, Miguel and company. The first night we go to sleep, and I sleep all through the day and wake up the next evening.  When I wake up, everyone is gone, along with their stuff. &lt;br /&gt;Suddenly the front door opens and two men enter.  I hide, but soon I realize that they don't see me.  They go to the window and look out, so I do the same and I see a different world.  I am a ghost and it's about 100 yrs in the future.  One of the men moves his stuff in and in doing so he sees me, and falls in love with me. &lt;br /&gt;Finally he has an house warming party and I'm upset that I'm dead, so I start to pout, and mess with his guests.  He gets upset and asks me to stop.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-2490142786475363773?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/2490142786475363773/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=2490142786475363773' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2490142786475363773'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2490142786475363773'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/21-feb-2003.html' title='21 Feb 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-1246280995960369965</id><published>2011-09-04T18:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-04T18:44:39.535-07:00</updated><title type='text'>20 Feb 2003</title><content type='html'>I'm in a house and there are these male singers who each correspond to a playing card: three of the 5's.&lt;br /&gt;Later I'm watching this woman.  She goes to an underground layer.  There are all these sorcerers, and one of them falls down the stairs but gets back up like nothing happened.  The woman eventually gets put into a cell.  There are two other women already there, and one of them is rather young.  Shortly a sorcerer comes and takes the young woman to the showers.  She knows what is coming and is rather defeated by it.  She goes and assumes the position.  She returns later and is crying; her anus is puffy, red and infected.  The new woman wants to do something to stop this.  Then there is a prisoner mixer and the woman dances.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-1246280995960369965?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/1246280995960369965/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=1246280995960369965' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1246280995960369965'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1246280995960369965'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/20-feb-2003.html' title='20 Feb 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-9096595606705461849</id><published>2011-09-04T18:31:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-04T18:36:55.971-07:00</updated><title type='text'>19 Feb 2003</title><content type='html'>I'm on a farm.  There's wheat that is being harvested.  I am with Felicity, Suzie and some guy.  The owner is showing us how it's done.&lt;br /&gt;Earlier in the dream I am trapped in a house and when they come to let me out, I have to go through these tubes.  I have to choose.  The one I choose takes me to NYC and I am with Felicity.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-9096595606705461849?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/9096595606705461849/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=9096595606705461849' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/9096595606705461849'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/9096595606705461849'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/19-feb-2003.html' title='19 Feb 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-3150558492364749970</id><published>2011-09-04T18:27:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-04T18:31:16.624-07:00</updated><title type='text'>4 Feb 2003</title><content type='html'>I'm in Germany with Suzie and family  We are staying with a family we know.  At one point we get on a boat.  The river is covered with a fiberous growth thick enough to stand on.  On the boat everyone decides to go site seeing.  I stay, and put my cell phone on the deck, but it gets thrown on to the bank of the river.  I have to go upstream and then walk back down to retrieve it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-3150558492364749970?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/3150558492364749970/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=3150558492364749970' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3150558492364749970'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3150558492364749970'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/4-feb-2003.html' title='4 Feb 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-3539410844936086127</id><published>2011-09-04T18:25:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-04T18:27:54.599-07:00</updated><title type='text'>5 Feb 2003</title><content type='html'>I am in the mountains, in the forest.  There are military people hunting me.  I have taken Kayla; she is still young.  She doesn't quite realize what is going on, so I feel that I am always on the lookout.  There is a man with us, and we run into people who help us along the way.  As the dream goes on Kayla gets older and we begin to work together.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-3539410844936086127?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/3539410844936086127/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=3539410844936086127' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3539410844936086127'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3539410844936086127'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/5-feb-2003.html' title='5 Feb 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-5398125406562035946</id><published>2011-09-04T18:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-04T18:24:43.552-07:00</updated><title type='text'>29 Jan 2003</title><content type='html'>There is a Clark family gathering in a hotel on the edge of the desert. Bill is there also, and so is Brian.  I have a party with my friends and then they all leave, including Brian.  Bill and I go to the store and we buy ice cream, but for some reason we steal these frozen blueberries and strawberries. &lt;br /&gt;Bill and I have returned from the store and I start smearing all the blueberries and strawberries over the windows and wall.  Later I clean it up, but not before the Clarks see it, and the hotel's cleaners.  The Clarks decide that Suzie is responsible for the mess and go on this procession of court hearings.  Then I step in and tell them that Suzie had nothing to do with it.  I did it all, and was  even already in the process of cleaning it up.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-5398125406562035946?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/5398125406562035946/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=5398125406562035946' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/5398125406562035946'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/5398125406562035946'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/09/29-jan-2003.html' title='29 Jan 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-5809095885915088455</id><published>2011-08-30T22:57:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-08-30T23:11:26.759-07:00</updated><title type='text'>27 Jan 2003</title><content type='html'>I am in this house and in the first room I'm in there is a huge mushroom.  From its cap, Big Bird falls and we start to play together.  Then Big Bird goes away.  Each room is different and my identity changes with each room.  The people in the room's change also.&lt;br /&gt;I'm in one room, there is antiques and jewelry from the Titanic.  There are only adults and they are dressed nice and dining.  One room was a cold winter storm on the water and there is this massive anchor, with this guy selling plants that grow out of shells.  He and I talked about how the native people could always tell where the plants were from the way the ice grew.&lt;br /&gt;In another room this is stuff, piled high, so high someone has to help me out.  In this room I find an old t-shirt to wear.  Another room is filled with chairs, Lazyboys, all covered with stickers.  I sit on one and go to sleep.  When the people come back, there is a woman who is all surly with me because I wrinkled one of the stickers on the chair, which was weird because everything was punk. &lt;br /&gt;Another room is an oddly shaped bathroom.  I can't see anything because there are bubbles everywhere, and steam also.  It's very pink and white.&lt;br /&gt;At one point I'm traveling between two rooms and this Asian guy grabs me.  I realize he is being chased, so I pretend to be making out with him, until his persecutors take off.  In exchange, he covers for me to leave the street way.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-5809095885915088455?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/5809095885915088455/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=5809095885915088455' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/5809095885915088455'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/5809095885915088455'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/08/27-jan-2003.html' title='27 Jan 2003'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-3438740075550933224</id><published>2011-08-28T20:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-08-28T20:20:11.770-07:00</updated><title type='text'>09/30/2002</title><content type='html'>Brian and I have just moved into this apartment building.  The building is designed as such: 1st floor is the lobby and a grocery store, the 2nd and 3rd floors have rooms and a swimming pool.  the 4th floor has a dining area and a spa. We have a one bedroom but its just one room with two beds.  The room is very crowded.  Brian works through the night as a telephone operator of some kind.  We keep getting all these porn magazines in the mail.  There are guys who live in the building that are trying to hit on me.  One of them looks like Matt Serina.  I spend a bunch of the time in the pool, I walk on the bottom.  I go to the spa, and the owner is there, he is having a bunch of problems. &lt;br /&gt;The building is on a hill and at the bottom of the hill there is a village.  I go to the village and meet Cris Stevens and also Anthony and Alyssa.  I take Anthony up with me.  He goes and lays in the mud and grass.  Next I'm driving up with Alyssa and we parallel park.  At one point I'm in the grocery store, counting out my change exactly.  I ask if I can charge things to my room, but the clerk doesn't know.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-3438740075550933224?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/3438740075550933224/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=3438740075550933224' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3438740075550933224'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/3438740075550933224'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/08/09302002.html' title='09/30/2002'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4255685290558553032</id><published>2011-08-28T19:41:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-08-28T19:42:50.864-07:00</updated><title type='text'>09/04/2002</title><content type='html'>I am at a party, at the guy's place, and I'm eating all this candy.  The Jolly Ranchers are spiked with LSD.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4255685290558553032?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4255685290558553032/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4255685290558553032' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4255685290558553032'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4255685290558553032'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/08/09042002.html' title='09/04/2002'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-455167922793063549</id><published>2011-08-28T19:30:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-08-28T19:41:41.517-07:00</updated><title type='text'>09/03/2002</title><content type='html'>I'm on a subway going to work.  I get off at my stop and it's a big station underground.  It's warm, steamy, full of people, things gray and brown.  On top of the station is built a mall that goes upward.  It is very fancy and the ground level is decorated like an English train station.&lt;br /&gt;I go to work.  It's my first day and I don't do anything.  I have my coat on for a lot of the day.  After work I go next door to this shoe store.  There are so many pairs and I want them all. &lt;br /&gt;I leave and it's snowing out.  I'm on East Colfax, walking west.  I'm struggling against the wind and snow.  Now I'm on a side street, by an elementary school, possibly Stedman.  I see this guy I went to school with; he's wearing shorts and a Hawaiian shirt.  He tells me not to give up against the wind.  We start walking together and I don't have a problem any more.  The entire time I was struggling, not the other way around.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-455167922793063549?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/455167922793063549/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=455167922793063549' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/455167922793063549'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/455167922793063549'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/08/09032002.html' title='09/03/2002'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-4762886385309242450</id><published>2011-08-28T19:23:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-08-28T19:28:22.361-07:00</updated><title type='text'>05/21/2002</title><content type='html'>It's night.  I'm trying to escape from my mom's house.  I leave on foot, but then return to get something. The house is further out than it really is. I go back three times, each time I get a little bit farther away before I have to turn back.  There's a man with my mother, and they are watching TV.  After I return the third time they kick me out.  I'm worried about missing John, I'm supposed to take him to the prom.&lt;br /&gt;Now it's day and I am on the same road, but in a car this time.  There is a lot of traffic, and I am following a pedestrian.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-4762886385309242450?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/4762886385309242450/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=4762886385309242450' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4762886385309242450'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/4762886385309242450'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/08/05212002.html' title='05/21/2002'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-1622617426415962852</id><published>2011-08-28T19:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-08-28T19:23:17.567-07:00</updated><title type='text'>01/07/2002</title><content type='html'>I'm in this house throwing a party.  It's my grandmother's house, but she may have passed away.  There is so much weed at this party.  Everyone helps clean up and then we all leave. &lt;br /&gt;My family is gathered at the Dexter house, they are all arguing over who gets to use it (grandma's house I think).  Some of my friends are there; we are all sitting in the basement, rolling a blunt.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-1622617426415962852?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/1622617426415962852/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=1622617426415962852' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1622617426415962852'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/1622617426415962852'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/08/01072002.html' title='01/07/2002'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-6914107997978612462</id><published>2011-08-18T11:21:00.002-07:00</published><updated>2011-08-18T11:28:49.102-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Dec 31, '01</title><content type='html'>There's this caravan of people walking along a boardwalk.  Kayla and I are a part of it, and so are Dave Hoffman and Doug from the Argonaut.  The boardwalk is alongside a river, and then a canyon.  We're all in Africa.&lt;br /&gt;At one point I walk through the river and at another point I am scared to take this jump on the boardwalk.  It's getting late and we all arrive at a staying place.  There we are eating and Dave Hoffman gets a beer.  He puts a lime in it.  Doug tells Dave to always check the food/fruit first and shows him that the bottle has worms in it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-6914107997978612462?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/6914107997978612462/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=6914107997978612462' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6914107997978612462'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/6914107997978612462'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/08/dec-31-01.html' title='Dec 31, &apos;01'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30428217.post-2511757408929946748</id><published>2011-08-18T11:21:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-08-18T11:21:52.318-07:00</updated><title type='text'>????</title><content type='html'>There's this older band and I'm trying to convince them to play again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30428217-2511757408929946748?l=mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/feeds/2511757408929946748/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=30428217&amp;postID=2511757408929946748' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2511757408929946748'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/30428217/posts/default/2511757408929946748'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mybrokenlanguage.blogspot.com/2011/08/blog-post.html' title='????'/><author><name>Chelsea</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02571695175869555109</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tRFXAcIUXyI/TiEZzM6HIOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/4WiQf3tgY-w/s220/100_6921.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
