Slowpoke are commonly found at the water's edge.

Sometimes everything about a dream can be all wrong, but in the end it's somehow just right.

In the beginning, I was fishing. I was near another guy, but he didn't mind the company. (Was he my grandfather? I've always held a grudge that he took my brother fishing and not me.) As I cast, I landed something big, which I assumed was a piece of debris under the water. So I gave it some slack to float away from the debris, and pulled again - but it was a catch, all right, and a big wide mouth came out of the water. With a mighty yank, I managed to pull what I thought was a huge bass out of the shallow inlet, but it turned out to be a Slowpoke - a very realistic Slowpoke, which looked more like a pink water bear. And the longer it was out of the water, the more it dried up from its original housecat-like size into a small, skittering miniature version! I pulled my DSi from its holster and immediately began snapping pics, but never got one that would have been good enough for Professor Oak.

As I went into the marina, I began to realize that I was at a very crappy Pokémon theme park; crappy as in low quality, but I was never discontent in feeling while I was there. I passed by a group of three people my age, one of whom had ordered the Slowpoke Tail from the place's diner. It was really just a foldover with some ham and cheese inside. As I sat with the people, I mentioned that this place would be a lot better if they had a Team Rocket section of the park, and was informed that I was sitting in it. Sure enough, Rs had been half-assedly painted all about to infer that this was the Team Rocket area. I also overheard a female hostess saying that there would be a Team Rocket impressions contest in about five minutes.

The whole area was just folding tables in a cheap "party room" type layout, so I gave the hostess some suggestions about how to improve it, which were taken good-naturedly. I then ordered myself a Slowpoke Tail, went outside where it was now raining, and got in a van with my family. My dad turned to tell me that some old thing or another had gone wrong, something about a key being mailed back to us, so we would have to go to a place. But I didn't care, and woke up with a smile on my face.

Dream Journal - 5 FEB 2009

I had discovered a small abandoned Disney theme park, and/or inherited it. It was tailored to fit me - for instance, there was a miniature bank inside, labeled the Bank of Eric. But at any rate, it was empty, and I was not wealthy.

Passing a fresco of the Magic Kingdom, I ran my finger alone the top of one of its walls to see if I could find my bank card - and indeed, I found something, but it was a folded up work order signed in either mayonnaise or White-Out by Christian Bale. I know I was in financial straits because I flounced it in front of my family, bragging about how he was "hot right now" and thus his signature on any paper would be worth a lot of money. He signed his name with little wings at the side, like the Dan Halen logo. I imagine the white signature manifested in dream land as I had made a large amount of pasta salad the previous day.

Some time passed and apparently I had figured out how to hide the letter inside the main castle keep, which had to be opened by traversing some mini-golf-esque greens that floated on water, culminating with one set that rotated around a central hub. I remember my father was there, and I remember that I worried that he would be disappointed in me if his shoes became wet from this, as it was a frivolity and thus I was a letdown as usual for bringing him to a place that his shoes might get wet. This does not reflect on how my father acts in real life, but does reflect on how much of a failure I see myself as in his and my mother's eyes.

After a way-too-complex system of entering the main keep, I came to find that the keep was a bit of a museum for comedy, with pictures on the walls and spaces for more pictures. I know time had passed and I had been there already, because a portrait of Larry and Balki hung in one spot (it must have been a concession I made to Christina). Around the long table in the center sat comedians in high-backed chairs; David Spade sat at one, talking seriously about events in his life, and I knew that this must be some secret club I was privy to, where comedians spoke as real people. Sort of like a Friar's Club, but instead of seeing comedians tear each other apart for sport, this was just a place for them to be regular people. I think the root of this group's appearance in my dreams is that I began commenting on Acheworld, the Achewood discussion area, and my absence before recently had been noted. It felt good to be among people who recognized me and shared my sense of humor.

There was a glass-top coffee table there whose main feature was a pewter, two-foot long sculpture of a terrified man or child, hands thrust against the glass. I recognized this table from a previous dream, and began to feel comfortable. But unfortunately, that is also when the reality of the dream began to unravel.

I was especially disappointed to wake up, because of several factors. I love Disney parks. I love comedians. I love feeling like I belong somewhere, and I love owning something that other people can use. My sense of loss upon waking was palpable. I felt so angry at the loss of this wonderful place that I began to wonder if I should really change my life, to put away childish things and stop dreaming of things I will never attain.

Wish Fulfillment Dreams!

I hate 'em.

Last night I dreamed that I was in a World of Warcraft-esque world, which began with me consulting my map and deciding that I was going to venture into the lands south of what was marked on my map as my old high school, Dobyns-Bennett. With me was a klutzy female companion of some kind who I do not recognize. She seemed to be wearing the robe and hood of a magic user of some sort.

So into that southern land we ventured. The land seemed to be a dark, dragon's-mountain-dungeon sort of land, controlled by her father, who I recall was named something like "Boros". Boros was about seven feet tall and classified as an "Icon" by the game's identification system. He happily volunteered to single-handedly run me through a difficult dungeon, and said that later he didn't see any reason why he couldn't use his vast empire to help me publish comic books and t-shirts of my design.

It was around this time that the logical part of my brain began to say "too much of a good thing", and I awoke, irritated.