Dear Fucking Fuckwad of Flaming Fuck Who Can't Fucking be Fucked to do his Fucking Job,
There we go.
This is not work-related, this is apartment-related. Let me just say that this Jeff guy? Not the brightest or sharpest crayon in the box, and it's getting to the point where I think he may have melted a little and be stuck to Burnt Sienna by now.
I would explain in more detail but I think I've already used my allotment of fucks for the day. I might have to go take some out on loan from David Mamet.
In other news, I kind of want to start keeping track of dreams a bit more. I have always known vaguely that my dreams are more complex than most peoples, but I didn't realize to what extent. So I feel like I need to try to record them better. Also, you guys will all see that no, I don't always dream complex plots.
Took place whilst passing an outdoor cafe (with green umbrellas) in an outdoor shopping arcade c. early 1900s-- you know the kind I'm talking about, grand avenues, massive department stores, etc? So there was that, and the streets were cobbled and one of the buildings on the corner had all these glass towers modeled after the Kremlin. It was fairly short, from what I can recall. There was a couple, young, possibly married, out walking with a small terrier. The woman was in a dark red dress with a very large hat; the man was in beige.
They were having a rather quiet discussion as people rushed around them about wanting to go to the stereoscope arcade (if anyone doesn't know what a stereoscope is, I will be happy to explain it), and the terrier was chasing birds, and they seemed to be having a rather casual day.
At one point, their conversation was interrupted by the flower-shaped outdoor speakers that were mounted on lamp-posts that also had pink lanterns like the ones in Venice, only round-bulb-shaped instead of the shade-shaped ones they actually have in Venice. They looked like blown glass.
The loudspeakers announced, "Islington (or Hazelton, I'm not entirely sure what they said) is now Sheridan."