Here is a dramatic reinactment of me sleeping.
Here is the dream I had last night:
My sister and I walked into a Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins store. I know it was the combo franchise because along with coffee, they served ice cream. The store looked dirty, as if it graded a “B-” by the Department of Health.
I stood in front of the cashier. He wore a tan visor. As I placed my order, the cashier released gallons of Barbeque sauce onto my head. I was standing under a Barbeque-sauce-releasing dispenser. The kind of dispenser one would get ketchup out of at a baseball stadium. I was the butt of gross practical joke. I can’t say the joke was distasteful, because the Barbeque sauce tasted ok.
I fell to the ground and started to crawl. I was soaked. I was mortified. I were a spare rib, I’d be a dog’s fantasy.
The Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins workers smiled and laughed. There were more workers than before. At first they thought the joke was hilarious. But when they saw my negative reaction, they got anxious and began to sweep the floors. All the workers were male’s of the same age.
My sister glared at the culprit. She put her hand on her hip. She looked dumbfounded. She took her hand off her hip. She held both hands palm up at her sides. Her attitude was sassy. She wanted answers. Why did these strangers douse me with gallons of sweet meat sauce?
We remained in the Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins combo store for an hour. My hair started to dry.
We never got answers. Until this point, there was no talking in the dream.
The visor-wearing worker felt bad. He offered me an ice cream cone. He held up a list of flavors. I requested Vanilla with Rainbow sprinkles. He ran to the back of the store. When the door opened, my sister and I looked into the kitchen. The ice cream cones were all pre-made. The ice cream was like a marshmallow texture. That grossed me out. I noticed a framed photo of the Department of Health rating of a “B-“.
This is the point when teeny tiny grey mice started to prance around our feet.