“Do you have White Bread?”

Two nights ago, I slept only two hours before getting up and working an 8 hour shift. Not sure how I managed that without any issues. So last night I went to bed early. I think around 9 PM, which is VERY early for me. I usually don’t GOTO bed until after midnight, at the earliest. I thought, “I’ll probably wake up during the middle of the night unable to fall back asleep, anyway.” Good thing I set my alarm for 7:25 AM.

I had another one of my three-wheeler dreams. Guess I miss riding that ATV. I had gone into the woods, but had lost my way. Conveniently, like a video game, there were set paths, and I knew I could find my way back if I just followed all the routes. It was 4 PM and I wanted to find my way back before the sun fell.

At the end of the dream, I was laying on the couch. You know how when you’re sleeping, you tend to dream of being, well, laying down? One of those things. Apparently, I had fallen asleep on the couch while ignoring my dad playing football. So I dream-woke-up and.. How to put it. I was arguing with my dad that a girl can not be hot without being “mentally” hot. My dad, of course, was arguing that hotties are simply hot, and it doesn’t matter what’s upstairs.

It seems so much like an argument we’d actually have. He’s kind of right, and kind of wrong. I’m kind of right, and kind of wrong. And we’ll stick to our positions because that’s just how we are. The answer doesn’t really matter.

After I woke up (and realized I had slept way more than nine hours), I considered that maybe I was just arguing with myself. It’s a thought. I’ve already established part of the reason I got to the way I was .. was because his voice had transversed into my head and mutated into thise overbearing presense. What if it then takes the opposite course and that voice transplates itself into other people? It’s not that far-fetched. I’m not arguing against my dream-dad. I’m arguing against myself. Cliff used to do it with me, arguing with me just to convince himself that he was right, even though, deep down, he knew he was wrong. He just wanted that position to be right.

(ex: He used to argue with me in favor of circumcision, because he didn’t want to believe it happened for no good reason. A sort of denial.)

As for what makes a hottie, there’s two questions. There’s what characteristics make up a hottie, and then there’s what hotness actually is. If we define hotness purely in physical terms, or physical attractiveness, then a hot hottie is a hottie, and that’s that. If you define hotness as something that transcends physical beauty, then a hottie must have more than physical beauty.

All a matter of how you phrase the question, of course. In the dream, I was answering one question, while my dad was answering another.

You know the feeling of waking up on one of those cold summer mornings, when you know it’s going to be really warm? When you can feel the warm sun beating down despite the crisp air? I felt like that this morning, despite it still being the dead of winter. (Nevermind the days of 60 degrees we’ve had. Right, global warming doesn’t exist.) It’s been a while since I’ve rinsed my face after getting up, but it just felt right. It’s also been a while since I’ve had such massive morning wood. I haven’t had wood that wouldn’t go down like that in ages. I must not be sleeping well, lately. This is one of the first dreams I’ve remembered, in a while.

I noticed it years ago, but my dad is a nightmare customer. He is so rude and inconsiderate to waitresses. I remember the time he chewed out a waitress because there were no free refills. …Uh, she doesn’t give a shit. She doesn’t make the prices or the rules. Go bitch at a manager. Of course, I know now that sometimes even a manager doesn’t make the rules.

My dad does not like chairs. He always wants a booth. A booth by the window. He will always ask to change seats if they give him something he doesn’t like.

He’s the type that likes the Wendy’s dollar menu. Or IHOP. He scoffs at the notion of actually paying for good food. Hey, when I went to Chi-Chi’s all those many times, I did it on my own dollar every time. I have a policy of not looking at prices unless I know I have limited funds on me. I mean really limited. When I used to go out to eat with my friends, I’d just order whatever I wanted and throw a twenty out. (Or maybe a ten.) We’d alternate who would pay, more or less. Never argue about money. With all the times Cliff has spotted me money, and I’ve spotted him money, it evens out. Besides, who cares? As long as it’s not hundreds of dollars, I don’t really care. He’s a friend.

Nevermind that my dad hates mexican food. Go figure. I don’t really understand the joke “Maybe you can pay for it next time.” Is that supposed to say that I’m poor? Is it to say that I should kiss his ass for paying for a meal? Hello, do you want to be the dad or not? Pay for the meal, damn it, it’s not like I’m any more extravegant than the next person. Hell, last Friday was one of the few times we’ve ever ordered desert. And the three of us (my sister, mom, and I) split it. I’m typically a one-course person. If you don’t want to pay for it, then don’t take us out to eat. You couldn’t cook for us even if you tried. So stop acting like it’s the first time you’ve seen a fucking bill.

Ahem. I have such pent-up anger, it seems!

I probably have anecdotes floating around my head here and there, but whatever. I’ll do my rounds and then make love to Roxanne.

Also, I need to file a report about the char indicator. I saw a notice on the front saying Bruce did something about the editor that I refuse to use. I better spank Bang Bang. He seems to do shit when I file reports! *snickers* I just better make sure I get the new cover sheet.