Dreaming of Ordering Fried Chicken and Never Receiving It

My dream last night was fragmented. It danced around several different places and themes. It didn't have a linear narrative structure. I'll try to tell you the bits and pieces I do remember.

I was in school. I had achieved some high marks for writing. I was sent to a place to compete with other creative writers. I'm not sure what this place was. Half of me thinks it was New York, the other half thinks it was a tropical island. Another part of me thinks it was a combo of New York and a tropical all inclusive resort. There were palm trees and skyscrapers.

There were about four of us writers. Not sure on the exact count. A girl from my high school who did well in every class was there. Dina Quartz.

We were trying to come up with the best short story. I don't remember what I wrote for these story prompts. There were at least four rounds of writing and submitting. The instructor kept coming back with my stories graded. They all received passing but low marks. I wasn't considered the top writer in the room. Dina was doing better than me.

I wasn't so bad that they sent me home.

Our instructor was kind of cute. He wore a faded green plaid coat. Glasses. Slicked back grayish-brown hair. Muscled arms. . .

At this writing conference, I ran into a girl who gave me a pair of shoes. They were emerald, they had feathers on them, they were kitten heel flip flops. I put them on because I didn't have any shoes. I was a barefoot writer.

I walked with this girl and other students. She had a cute haircut. I remember her: she was one of the nice girls from high school. The kind that sings about togetherness with her guitar, crochets hats, and builds adorable things in art class. We chatted about stories, grades, and future plans. This girl wasn't a close friend of mine back in my high school days. She told me she took the shoes from a popular girl, but it didn't matter because I needed shoes. We agreed I should be wearing shoes.

I did feel pretty in the shoes even though they were wild, I mean, feathers? Also, emerald isn't a popular color for shoes. In fact, I don't think I have anything in that color in my wardrobe. I ran into the girl who owned the shoes, Kaitlyn. She was giving me a death stare. Her hair was red and super curly. She was thin. One of those jean-size-zero types. . . .

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I was 18. I sat next to a blond student. We both had crushes on each other. This person isn't someone I actually know in real life. I was also a 30 something trapped in an 18-year-old's body. I still had my memories of my former life, but for whatever reason, I was a high schooler again. I felt like I had a major advantage over the other students.

I talked with the boy in my English class. We were the top two students. We were study partners. We went to a restaurant that sells fried chicken. My mom worked at the restaurant. She was a cashier. I ordered online for both myself and the student, let's call him Owen. It was a long order. I had a receipt for the items:

1. A chicken sandwich.

2. Bowl of macaroni and cheese.

3. 6-piece chicken tender basket with gravy.

4. 2-Dr. Peppers.

5. 3-Coffees...no cream.

6. Blue cotton candy.

7. Funnel cake.

8. Chocolate chewy cake.

9. Roasted chicken knives.

10. Yellow potato with some holes.

11. And dumplings.

Owen and I waited for our food for a long time. I actually felt hungry in the dream. My stomach would gurgle. The restaurant was in a mall-like setting. You would order at the register and then sit at tables in the main lobby. Owen and I had a table to ourselves. Our study materials were strewn out everywhere.

Owen was studying writing. I was worried about the food, and why it was taking so long. I wanted that mouth-watering chicken. There was a long line forming. It seemed like the place was only focused on taking orders but not fulfilling them. You could order all day long if you like, but it doesn't mean you're going to get a bucket of chicken.

Was my brain coming up with an elaborate Seinfeld joke?

I asked Owen about his hopes and dreams. He said he eventually wanted to be a professor, so I gave him some advice. I told him to pick a focus that lots of universities would want, like linguistics. Literature is very competitive. There aren't a lot of instructor openings for this focus, and those who do teach literature at the university level will hold onto the job until they retire. I told him that linguistics was a smart way to go. It would open the door to all kinds of possibilities. (I didn't tell him this, but composition/rhetoric is another great way to go. Students will always have to write essays.)

I really wanted this date with Owen to go well, but it felt like things were working against us. I was so hungry. He gave me some pictures to look through. He was wearing a Packers hoodie, so I pieced together that he was a football fan. In a way, Owen is like a composite of my husband. . . who is also blond, wanted a Ph.D. in literature, loves British soccer (football), and is obsessed with fried chicken.

We never got our fried chicken. . .

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I got in a fight with flying paper from the sky. The paper would roll up together into a diamond shape and attack me. . .

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I was working in an office and I needed to print something, but I couldn't find a working printer. This office was snazzy. I wasn't 18 anymore. I was about 25. I had long forgotten Owen and the quest for fried chicken.

I knew my friend Gerald Sausage had a working printer, but I couldn't connect to it through the WiFi. So I started sending him a whole bunch of emails for print requests. Now it would have made sense to send Gerald Sausage one long email with all my requests, but no I just kept sending him one-sentence emails. It went something like this:

Please print this picture of this banana.

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Please print this attached file of a series of numbers.

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Please print this biography of George Washington.

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Please print this poster of a missing cat.

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Please print this short story that's due today.

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I admit this was a lot of emails.

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END REQUESTS

Then I woke up. I didn't get to meet Gerald Sausage. I didn't get to see my printed-out papers. I felt hungry. I had a slight headache.

Side note: In real life, my husband and I have been watching a Korean drama. In the show, there is this restaurant called BB.q Chicken. The food looks immaculate. We found out BB.q Chicken is a chain restaurant with some stores in the United States. There is one about 50 miles away from our home. It's almost in reach, but it's just far enough that it would be a pain to get there.