I had two dreams over the past two nights that I wanted to write down:
1. I had a dream that I had excitedly flipped through my real-life subscription to The New Yorker and stopped on the "fiction" section only to see that my real-life nemesis-- who does not write in real-life nor did they write in my dream-- had a novice piece published.
2. Unbeknownst to many, I took such an abundance of Anthropology classes in college that I ended up minoring in it (in real-life). In my dream, my mom and I found a bracelet stolen by a typical teenaged rapscallion and we promptly found where he lived and decided to tell on him. When we rang the door to his mansion-like house, his grandmother opened the door. She was kind and charming. As she invited us into her home, I noticed her bookshelves full of books by Margaret Mead. I soon realized this woman was Margaret Mead, and now I was friends with her.
