The other day, mom was trying to wake me up so that I would be at work only with a reasonable delay. It needed a bit of shouting because my mind was in a crowded pub full of Italian revolutionaries who were shouting their heads off. I was just at a point of meeting Garibaldi when some door banging did it.
I wonder what would papa Freud say.
Sometimes, the dreams are somehow related to reality, which the today's one was not. At all. It could be a proper psychological short story if I took the pain to elaborate, in which I was a surfer growing up in Malibu.
Here I need to intercept, dear reader. I'm a lousy swimmer and I'm afraid of large bodies of water. Surfing would be cool and maybe, if I actually lived somewhere on a beach with surf, I may try it, but being the real me, I say Eeeeep, no. Also, I know about Malibu only from watching Three and half men.
So, well, yeah, house on a beach, surfing, getting lots of tan, sun-bleached hair...
I can sort of imagine myself in a wetsuit but I don't want to. Dear reader, follow my path.
.... and then I was transplanted to somewhere in Europe with four distinct seasons, snow in winter and all that what they don't have in Cali, and I had problems connecting with the natives. And then went snowboarding, worried that there's no way I would be able to do it, decided that it's like surfing, just on different form of water, after all, the guy who invented snowboards was inspired by surfboards, and it went all okay. Then I woke up into a July day with a headache.