Mrs. Decosta?

Here's the dream I had last night kids...

I had an English teacher my sophomore year of high school named Mrs. Decosta. Sweetest lady, hardest English class I've ever had.

Well this dream takes place in her classroom, but the hallway attached to her room exists in the school in which I went to second grade. I'm walking down this hallway, and there in the second grade classroom is Mrs. Decosta teaching a high school class.

One of my small group kids is in that class. His name is Matt.

For some reason, he immediately starts making fun of me. This is what Matt does in real life also. So I walk up behind him and slap the crap out of the back of his head. He starts crying. I slap him again and tell him to man up, slap him one more time, and walk to the front of the room.

Mrs. Decosta asks me to help her with some boxes in the back of the room, so I do.

I'm filling boxes with packaging peanuts, whole blocks of styrafoam, and pink and brown tissue paper. The whole class is watching me, as this is not a quiet task to perform. The paper is crinkling, the stryafoam is making that noise styrafoam makes, and Matt (my small group kid in the dream) is talking smack.

I slap Matt around a little more.

Suddenly, I'm in front of my car (the green Honda Accord) with a baseball bat. I start smacking the junk out of it until the water pump falls off the engine. I look under my car, and there's a huge hole in my engine. Coolant is pouring everywhere.

...and I'm awake. What?

reflection...

Apparently, Matt drives me nuts and I want to kick the junk out of him for being a goober.

Apparently, I feel as though Mrs. Decosta gave me a job that I could perform only with an insane amount of noise. In high school, this might have been yelling and screaming.

Apparently, I wish I could hit my car with a bat and fix it like that.

That would be so stinking awesome.

Love you.