Even my barest acquaintances know how much I hate otters. Horrible, horrible otters with their fleshy noses and rows of needle-like teeth.
Hate otters but love dreaming about celebrities, apparently. The cognitive dissonance of celebrities and otters met last week when I managed to combine thoughts of both while I was sleeping.
In a dream, I was at a 1960's motel, which had overgrown tropical landscaping. The pool had been transformed into an otter pond. I remember thinking "I should overcome my distaste for otters and try to tickle their bellies as if they were cats." I reached into the pool to find that they weren't nice like cats at all. Big surprise. They're otters.
Later in my dream, Owen Wilson was swimming in the decommissioned pool / otter pond (in his street clothes, I believe, reader). He was sent to my dream by my subconscious in order to distract me from the pain of otters.
-- This post was completed in the blessedly wireless reading room of the Seattle Public Library. Despite the amazing architecture and cool furniture and styling floor coverings, it's their local history collection, vertical files and biographical card index that really fill me with impure thoughts.
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