She took the remains of the baby's stool and began to poke around in it. I could see mushy forms of banana, small chili pepper, and bits of ground beef. She told me it was a "green" way of reusing food, since baby's don't digest everything they need, you know. I didn't say anything. I didn't want to offend her. My wife didn't say anything, she just stood there, and looked sick. I began to ruminate to myself that this is what happens when you don't give people enough to do, when you aren't smart enough to let yourself do what you'd like to do...you start feeding your baby its own shit. I went over to the living room, far from the microwave where the baby shit was heading. The baby just laid there, on the counter, next to the sink.
I went to music class. There was the same teacher that was there in another dream about junior high - it's a person I've never met but if I did meet them in real life I would guess that he's one of those annoying clerks who try to make conversation with you as if you were a human, as if they were a human, as if we weren't in some kind of mechanical device, as if I could just reach in there into his chest and touch his heart, as if the money I would pass him regardless of his opinion of the weather had a magic power to disengage the conversation...
We didn't learn a thing. I didn't need to. It was 8th grade.
Last night, I tried to install OS X onto my brain. I couldn't see anything, I felt everything. I saw the packages unpacking, decompressing, matricies expanding organically up from my stomach, up through my spine, into my neck, webs of information coming in, operating, 3...2...1
I could see. I could finally see what was going on. I needed to configure my video drivers. I was awake. I wanted to make love to my wife.
P.S. - thanks.
thanks for all-ll the donuts.
If I ever live again
I want another slice
of donut just like you.
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