Whisk.

Hallmarks of my dreams: slightly revolting public bathrooms in strange configurations, and me attempting waste elimination in equally strange places. Once it was in a desk drawer; another time it was in a recliner; and this time it was in a short hospital laundry basket, my legs hanging over the edge, and a couple of litter boxes, where I strained in futility.

Why this happens, I don’t know. Why I occasionally see people I used to know and last saw over twenty years ago in these dreams, I have even less idea.

My brain can be a surreal place. Freudians would have a block party with it.

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