Somewhere around Barstow, I guess.

Last night’s dream:

I am driving down a very long highway in an very long car from the 70’s. Heading toward the west coast I think. Next to me is a stocky looking dog – like a pit bull or boxer. It is reading a map.

In the back seat we have some bottles containing chemicals.  They are labeled with with pieces of tape that I understand to say “CHEMICALS” even though they are just pieces of colored tape.

There is also a large quantity of foam shapes – foam board, cones, spheres.  Like the kind of thing you get from a craft store.  I keep forgetting how much of it is there so I keep checking on it. Or the quantity is actually changing.  The quantity changes in proportion to how lost we seem to be.  We seem to be quite lost, so the amount of foam products has become unmanageable. I am aware that sooner or later it will stop taking up additional space, and will just start getting denser.  This is very bad for some reason.

I ask the dog could we please use the gps because I don’t think he is very good at reading a map. Partly because he is now holding it in his teeth – though I think he had hands before. He drops it and says he was just holding it to make me feel better anyway. At this point he has a human head that kind of looks like Hunter S. Thompson.  Or possibly Burgess Meredith.  He is smoking, in any event.

He notices me staring at him, and says, “Do you even see any turns?”

There are no turns.

I let the matter drop, and turn my attention back to the cargo. I suddenly recall that we are planning to build a rocket. I begin to consider that this plan may have flaws. I gesture to the back and say, “I don’t think this is going to work.  I really don’t see how this is going to work.”

The human-faced dog takes the cigarette out of his mouth and says, “Look, don’t be such a pussy. We just need to find an empty pool.”

I look in the back again – one of the bottles has come open and it is spilling glowing green liquid on the floor of the car.  It gets on some foam pieces.  They begin to melt. The floor of the car is also melting, and the car begins to split in two. I point back with my thumb and say, “But I don’t think that’s chlorine.”

The dog begins to laugh madly with the cigarette still clenched in the teeth of his manface.

My phone beeps – I check and see there is a new text.  It says “he is on drugs.”

I lower my phone and look back at the dog, who now also has a phone.  He sent the text. This baffles me, so I question him.

“How did you get a phone?”

“I’m a minority.”

“You are a dog.”

“And YOU are a fucking racist.”


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