Stress doesn't exist in a bag of cheetos

I had many – many many many dreams last night. Trying to fit a bag of charcoal in an ATM, late to pay the bill at a restaurant, home – home home hauling 5 people on a bike and riding up to my old house wondering why cans were strewn about the court? Why 20 bikes were parked out front? When I got inside my mom said, “I doubt you have any clean clothes,” like we had just gotten home from a trip, but all our rooms were empty, gray carpets reflecting absence. “I do have clean clothes,” I said, “I’ve only been wearing one shirt.”
Before that I was lost around town, doubling back on myself and having to pee so bad I dreamed about having to pee at least 3 times. I found my old high school completely transformed to a beautiful Spanish-style building with orange walls and ivy cascading down. My writing teacher there has been battling cancer and I haven’t spoken to her in the real world in so long, but I saw her in my dream, beautiful glowing white hair. I asked how she was and she she smiled, said “wonderful.” I had a sense of being older, kids looking to me as a professor and when I sat in on her class there were two girls in back dressed in all black gothic punk style blasting music and not giving a shit where they were. I had learned here in this beautiful classroom with this beautiful, brilliant teacher. She gave me a way in – a roadmap and a damn good pen and these girls looked slacked and lazy while all the other students were hunched over their work. And when I spoke I felt I had power in my throat. I had work behind me, experience especially looking at these young girls who were disrespecting such a sacred place. “I don’t mean to interrupt,” looking at my teacher, “But why” looking back to the girls “are you here?”
It was for Gen ed. they answered and they had to take this for other art classes and it made me sad they didn’t realize how important this was – that all art starts here – in self exploration and how do we do that without writing it all down?

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