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2001-05-28 | 10:53 a.m.

Another bad dream. This time Jasper got shot in the head, through the fence in the backyard, and there was a big oval hole on one side of his head and part of his brains fell out. I sent Duff out to the backyard to look for the missing lobes. Can you believe my mind fucks with me this much?

I spent the dream clutching Jasper to my chest, trying to get to the hospital with the missing parts and get them put back in just the way they were before. I don't think they have brain surgeons on call at the emergency room, but I was more determined than panicked.

This dream, as well as the dream I wrote about the other day, seems to be about not feeling in control of what happens to my kids. Mixed with guilt about not watching them constantly. They often come in from outside with bloody scrapes and scratches. So I guess my dream mind decided it was only a hop, skip, and a jump from there to full-scale carnage.

I did have a less disturbing dream this morning. I was at a bar or something where a lot of people were gathered and some generic rock star walked by, tall and lanky and a little shaggy, a cipher, the seventh Ramone crossed with the professor I had a crush on in college, and I just grabbed him and held on for dear life. I think I even locked my legs around his knees. Shameless. I was not planning to let go. He was facing me and I ran my hands up inside his white T-shirt and along the front of his loose jeans. (He felt like Duff, which made me want him more, not less.) I laughed like a slattern, like a woman with missing teeth.

But he wasn't squirming to get away. You know how rock stars are; they're used to it. What are the chances I would ever behave like that in real life? About 18 percent.

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