I am at a hockey game. I´m am at the game on a date. With a girl. I am realizing that I don´t really like her that much. I certainly don´t dislike her, though she´s not my favorite. I am, however, attracted to this girl physically. The attraction, incidentally, is strong enough that I feel that I would like to have sex with her at some point.
I leave the game. I decide to leave through the ice. I do this in the middle of the game. As I cross the ice, I realize that I am wearing a referee jersey. Everyone-players, fans, referees, are screaming in anger at me. As I run, I decide to change my shirt. I want to avoid being mamed.
I realize now that I am in the parking lot. I don´t have another shirt in the car. I decide to put my referee jersey on inside-out. On the way back in, I find Daniel Armstrong. Daniel Armstrong is a real person with whom I grew up in San Antonio. I haven´t seen him in a while. Over a year. We head back to the stadium. We find an enterance that has been covered with plywood. We break through the plywood to get in.
I don´t know what happened to the sexy girl.
I´m now on a farm. There is a horse there. The horsey is black and beautiful. The majority of the sleek beast is covered by a thick, red blanket. The horse is standing on the side of a trailer. I know it is a trailer, though it resembles more of a traincar. A container, so to speak. The horse is standing on a thin pathway to the side of the train container. The beautiful steed must have hated me. It kept on jumping with its front legs high into the air.
I feel as though its incessant jumping presents a possible danger for that fucking horse who hates me so. Still, I tell a lady about my concern. I still love that faithless prick of a horsey. The lady responds with a scream. "He has to stay there!" she hollers. Her attitude, the main component of her words, is really scummy and negative. She has proven to be as faithless as that big ol´ steed.
"Fine. Fuck it," I say.
I am on the way into the house on the farm. In the first room, I see Stephan and Bri. Stephan and Bri exist, to the extent that I can claim the existence of anything. They were with me at the farm in Malchingui. They are my friends. Stephan has 3 to 4 stacked to-go containers. The containers are made of two parts. The bottom part is some sort of flimsy metal, likely aluminum. The top section is made of plastic. You might call it a lid or a top.
I ask Stephan what he is eating. By the way, he is eating with the speed and carelessness for detail as might a vacuum cleaner set about the same task. I ask what he consumes even though I see that it is some sort of soupy tomato stuff. Inside of the soupy mess are vegetables, unidentifiable. I look up at Bri, who sits across the table with no food. She is not paying attention. I laugh anyway. My laugh is supposed to say, "Well, he´s just too much, I tell ya." It´s meant to be an endearing, friendly comment.
It is true that I want the food Stephan eats. Though the vigor with which he attacks the comestibles tells me he´ll finish all that is put in front of his mug. I ask where the food came from. Stephan pauses for long enough to say that it is from (first name)´s. I know what the place is in the dream, though I don´t recall the (first name), nor do I think it exists outside of my dream.
I move to the kitchen. I head there to make my own damn food. I find two styrafoam containers. They look like they were made to, have at some point, or hopefully still do, contain food. One styrafoam container is brown. The other styrafoam container is white. I am excited, frankly, about the prospect of finding some food, ideally something unhealthy but filling.
In the first container, I find a full meal of food, untouched. It is some sort of burrito. Inside the burrito is potatoes, onions, rice. The whole ordeal seems to have been spiced with something that gives it all an orange hue. The color of it all makes the first food quite appetizing. The tortilla is red. To the side of the burrito is a pile of black beans. They are not extravagant, rather simple and appetizing. As I look more closely at the food, I notice that there is mold on parts of both portions. The mold is sparse and, given my appetite, unthreatening. Small, whitish, greenish balls. 100 of these balls would fill one grain of rice.
I decide to scrape the stuff off with a knife and eat anyway. I scrape just a bit. I realize soon that I´m probably simply displacing the stuff more than anything. Absolutely not accomplishing what I aim for with any semblance of success. I stop and move on.
In the second container, the white one, is a different story altogether. I find in the second half of a quesadilla. I know that it is from Chili´s Restaurant. Chili´s Restaurant is a real place that I visited frequently on hockey trips because teammates worked for the place in Austin. Knowing that the quesadilla is from Chili´s ensures that I don´t want it. Not to mention that it is full of cheese. The other half is basically a tortilla full of guacamole. I know that it is really old. Still, though, it has maintained its color quite surprisingly. This makes me nervous more than anything.
Next, Neil and I go into a soup restaurant. Neil is a real friend of mine. We have gone to eat together in what I´ll call real life over the last six years. The restaurant is in California. It is a hip place with a phonetically spelled name, something like "kwik." I remember it having a "Q."
Neil is telling me that he is thinking about getting a job there. (For the record, Neil is currently employed and recently received a raise. So there, dreamworld.) Before working there, naturally, Neil would like to sample the fare. We look a long time, and I think we´ve both decided what we want minutes before we actually make a move to further the process.
I am interested in all of the soups, though have absolutely no interest in actually ordering anything but one of the two vegetarian options. One is called "Hunter´s" something. I want that one. I step up to order, but the menu at the front is different. On this menu, the "Hunter´s" soup is a meaty soup. Very meaty. I´m somewhat nervous with the status of my meal. The lady at the counter isn´t comforting. She is concerned about the line that is building up behind me.
I am concerned about my soup, especially in relation to my morals.
The final component of the dream was something German. That was my key word to remember the portion of the dream. I remember nothing more than that; "German."