a vestige of thought...

I had a very odd and humorous dream on Saturday night. I have not remembered one so clearly in a long time. (You may or may not have noticed how lax I have become about keeping up my dream blog.) Anyhow, it went something like this:

I was kidnapped my Saddam Hussein. He kept me and a bunch of other prisoners in these sort of chicken yards with low fences around them. At some point a guy came out and shot all the prisoners. I lay there on the ground for awhile, waiting to die, and then it occurred to me that I didn't feel very much like dying. Nothing hurt and I couldn't feel blood anywhere, so I figured the bullet must have missed me. I lay there for a while longer, playing dead, just for good measure. After a time I got up and went to the edge of my yard, where Saddam was standing. I said something to the effect of, "Um, excuse me. I'm not dead." He said (in a British accent), "Oh. Well, can I give you a haircut then?" Of course, I didn't argue. I figured the worst he could do to my hair would be better than being dead. So he gave me a haircut and it actually looked pretty good. I complimented him on it. Then he took me into his super-secret back room where he kept lots and lots of American Girl dolls and cut their hair in his spare time. He told me all about how cutting dolls' hair was his passion and how he was thinking of leaving politics and terrorism and going into the doll fashion business. I told him I thought this was a fantastic idea. And then I woke up and laughed.