Death by Chubby Plane

I hate it when people say, Oh My God, I had the craziest dream last night, and then you have to sit there listen to them talk to you about their dream – which impossible, you CAN’T describe a dream because it’s a feeling you can’t grab with words.
But they keep going and going until they get to the part where they can’t remember or they woke up. And you say, yeah, wow.

But anywhoo. I had the craziest dream (last night). In this dream, the guy Sitting in the Cubicle Next to Me Right Now – and my Dad – were flying in a Chubby Plane, which looks like this:


You remember them. And an Asian baby playing with one looks like this:


So the Guy Sitting the Cubicle Next to me Right Now – and my Dad – were flying in the Chubby Plane.

(I think this stems from the fact that my Dad has an actual plane, and flies it frequently, and I hate flying, and when I flew last week, the guy sitting next to me had the paper open to an article about that small plane that just crashed into those houses in Florida – burning Children to death in their sleep. (Here/Frightening.)

I was on the ground, watching. The plane crashed. My Dad survived. The Guy Sitting in The Cubicle Next to Me Right Now – he did not.

I’ve been at work now for two hours. Is it my duty to tell him? Do I dare warn him? What if we are all prophets? Could death by chubby plane be avoided, if we would only share our dreams, even if its with strangers?

In my dream, I was sad that he is dead. I stood in the kitchen of his father’s mansion, eating ice cubes, waiting for the reckage to be removed.

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