My subconscious is messed up.

I dreamt that I met Ayn Rand.

The version of “me” in the dream was very excited upon learning that the famous novelist/philosopher was in our home. I told her I owned one of her books–The Fountainhead, centennial edition–and that my dad was a big fan who had ancient copies of The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged, as well as two books about her life and works.  I told her she had to sign my book; it would be an honor and the book would be my most valued possession from this day forward.

Then I said, “I haven’t actually finished reading your book… I will, soon, though.” I was a bit ashamed. The first writer I ever met and I hadn’t even finished her book.

She never talked in my dream. Just sort of stared at me in wonder. Her short white hair, and kind eyes were all I remembered.

I didn’t get her to sign my book. I’d left it on the corner of a table, and for some reason I was suddenly busy. When I saw it again she’d already left. I felt crushed.

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So you've stumbled upon my blog. There's nothing special here unless you're into learning about my twisted mind.

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