Last night, I dreamed in three acts that seemed to blend together just fine, naturally.
Dream 1: Mick
Dream 1: A high school classmate dated a guy who’s first language wasn’t English. As my classmate weirdly* called me “Mike”, her foreign friend would pronounce it “Mick”. The name just wasn’t clicking for the ol’ boy. Also, Mick is a derogatory term for the Irish, and that made the mispronunciation fun enough for me not to correct the gentlemen.
* In high school, I was called Michael or Michael Wright. No classmates called me “Mike”. That’s why it was weird to hear my classmate use the nickname.
Dream 2: He’s got a gun
Dream 2: Me and a group of friends got chased through an airport. We used free-running and parkour to escape a dude with a gun.
The hot tempered gentleman didn’t agree with us separating him from a young lady who he violently retaliated against in a public argument. He directed his anger at me and some veteran buddies.
Dream 3: A salvageable bicycle
Dream 3: I climbed a really tall telephone pole. At the top of the pole was mounted a camera for us bold climbers to capture a selfie. The camera had a cool retro design including wood panel parts.
I climbed down the pole and found a kid’s bike discarded in some bushes. An older cousin and I — as long-time fans of fixing bicycles — both agreed there was “nothing wrong with this bike”. I brought the small white bike inside a room with some tools and began setting it up to give to Maddalyn, my daughter.
The bicycle dream bit makes sense because I’ve been thinking a lot about upgrading my daughter’s bicycle. Seems that her seat can’t be adjusted any higher. She really, really likes riding her bike.