Came in to find this at my desk this morning.

The true geeks out there know the score here:

I am at a fight camp, fighting outside with pool noodles. Many of my fight friends from my most recent excursion are there. Soon, I find myself needing to use the restroom.

I enter the building to find it a colossal, mansion-like structure. The bathroom is no different, where troughs like you would find at a baseball stadium line the walls. I need the stall, however, and its door is a half-door, revealing the occupant’s face. I sit and go about my business, but am constantly interrupted by “visitors” with urgent conversations.

In time, I remove myself from the premises, heading to the top floor where my friend Chris Dunham and a friend of his are waiting to have it out with me over something. The friend is a little person, to use the current politicized colloquialism. When I arrive, they are harrassing a girl from the fight camp, whose identity shifts so much as to make recognition impossible. Regardless, I stand up for her to the point where violence is imminent.

I swallow my reluctance and set about to giving them each a well-deserved pounding. As in many dreams, I am essentially invulnerable once I decide to mete out justice. After slamming Chris to the floor and beating him into submission, his head —now that of an unidentifiable blonde man with a buzzcut — begins to shrink almost comically to the size of a golfball.

Suspecting this is his way of retreating so he does not have to hear my lecture, I tear away his several layers of t-shirts. I come to realize that he is nothing more than a crudely constructed skeleton of paper towel tubes and dowels on which hang the t-shirts. His head is all that is him and it has now shrunk beyond my ability to find it, if it ever existed.

—

I wake myself up moaning in confusion and anger. For those who don’t know him, Chris Dunham is wholly awesome and I hold him no ill will. I don’t know why he was the avatar of such a creature in my subconscious.

As I head back into college, I think more and more about what education should really be for me. Mostly, I require the document, but why waste my time solely on that? I will make my education mean something beyond the paper.

Thanks, K-Co.

Having moved into a new house with a roommate, a house that vaguely resembles the Dunham’s home, but finished, I am searching for a place to set up an office for myself. The squarish spaces of the rooms do not match my furniture terribly well, so the going is tough.

My roommate informs me of something happening outside that he feels requires my attention. When I leave the house, our farmland yard is covered in tiny blue spheres. In the wind, I hear something say, “If the balls are moved, it will wake the spinet.” Then, through unclear necessity, my roommate moves one of the things. Dumb ass.

Immediately, as though the spheres were a blanket over a nest, a swarm of winged insects burst from beneath them and somehow captured us. We are enslaved by the bugs, who possess a sort of telepathy.

When I awake, I am in a space-age elevator where several different-colored caterpillars spell strange letters on the floor. When we do not respond, we hear in our brains, “We are to assist you. Please take care with your feet.”

My roommate, still a dick, makes a motion to stomp on them, and they scurry into the cracks of the elevator which abruptly stops. He must hear something in his brain that makes him leave, then the elevator resumes, taking me to a different floor. The navy blue caterpillar returns, introduces himself in my mind as Adrian, then takes me to a room much like a classroom.

A projector plays what seems a child’s video game, with frequent Hardee’s commercial breaks. As I am subjected to tests, a woman in the room informs me that we are now slaves. We will be given everything we could ever want and live in blissful paradise, but will occasionally be called upon to massage the carapaces of the cow-sized insects who are the ruling class of sorts.

The other choice of course is death. I choose the former, but am met with baleful looks from my fellow inmates.

Before I encounter the massage, I wake up, but the question remains in my head: Would I suffer occasional mind-bending horror to live in paradise?

This makes sense to me. Ignore the thumbnail; it lacks context and the video does not express animosity toward any belief or non-belief. This is merely a logical explanation of open-mindedness as a defense.

A man named Pedro makes a second daring escape from a prison, breaking into a flat out sprint across a golf course-like lawn, lit by floodlights from all sides. As part of some kind of protest, I and my fellow Improv Everywhere compatriots mill about in similar clothing on the lawn, confusing his incarcerators. I struggle with the morality of this, while Pedro’s get away car pulls that prank on him where the driver pulls a few feet away just as you reach the door. The improv group of three hundred laughs.

The protest over, I am walking Buffy the Vampire Slayer home (not Sarah Michelle Gellar, mind you, but Buffy). I am in a Xander-esque best friend role and have no romantic interest in the petit blonde. As she enters her dorm room, I notice that the building is actually Whitefish Bay High School. It is dark, and something is lurking. I make my way through back hallways and the like, avoiding shadowy pursuers, ducking into stairwells at appropriate times. My fear strangles me.

—

Yep. It’s audition season. I wonder who Pedro is meant to be.

I never thought anything good could ever come out of shows like American Idol. Not truly GOOD, anyway. It’s good to be wrong sometimes.

And from an old and dear friend, another day-maker. I risk breaking my site structure to show these, so they must be something, right?