A journey to San Francisco to become no less than Me. (BLOG REBOOT: Former site of Hairy Legs.)

The other night I had a dream.  I dreamed my voice was right.  Nothing else was really fixed about me, but I can pass well enough visually without hormones anyway, so this is the main thing I want, and I had it.  The weird thing of it was, I only sounded right through audio equipment.  Recordings of me sounded right (so I could post a video online without sounding wrong) and I could talk through a microphone and I sounded right, too.  It was everything I wanted, I just had to carry around this technology with me to have it.

I know there’s something symbolic about this but I can’t quite put a finger on it.

The next night, I had a nightmare.  I dreamed I was at Wal-Mart, just goofing off like I always do (because Wal-Mart is the only cheap thrill out here in a place like this), and I saw someone from the old life, someone I still have to pretend to, my old music teacher.  Apparently she was Christmas shopping for everyone she knew, and she wanted me to go on ahead and “be a dear and pick out a present for yourself so I don’t have to.”

She had very specific limitations, though.  I had to pick out a girly item from this very particular name brand and it had to be under 3 dollars.  She told me where they were, and naturally, because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings or give myself away, I trooped off to go find something.

Now it had turned into my least favorite kind of dream:  one of those panicky dreams where I had to find something before a certain time limit ran out- namely, before my music teacher had gotten through check-out.  Naturally, if it had been real life, I would have just declined because her narrow image of what to get for me was exactly what I DIDN’T want, but for some reason in the dream world, this was now my quest- to figure out something from the girly shelf I would actually LIKE.

One of the biggest problems became even finding the shelf in the first place.  Once I did, all that was left was a bottle of fingernail polish remover.  I have NEVER liked fingernail polish.  It was a bloody joke.  (A weird deviation-  someone else came along and suggested this weird little dressertop knick-knack that kinda reminded me of the Easter Island heads.  I retorted that I didn’t want any more crap since I have enough of it to get rid of anyway.)  At this point I was so frustrated that I finally just ran up to my music teacher and told her if she was so determined to give me a present, I could just take the 3 dollars and go get a burger and call it a day.

The symbolism in this dream seems so obvious that it pretty much speaks for itself.


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