My Dream.

[Author’s note:
This dream was seen in Social Studies class, when we were doing three periods of Careers, and our teacher told us to close our eyes and either cover our eyes or put our heads on the desk, gave us a scenario and we were to dream about that, it was getting out of bed when you were 25. What is your job? What are you wearing? What does your house look like? What do you look like? Where do you work? What do you do as you prepare for the day ahead? What do you get dressed into? What kind of vehicle do you get into to go to work, if you leave the house? Do you live by yourself, or do you have a partner/spouse? I encourage readers who liked my dream description to try and do their own, and then send me the item number through email. My email address is [e-mail]; I look forward to your replies!
Thanks,

Erika.
P.S. This dream is open to interpretations, and if you have done the aforementioned career’s class, include in your reply your Holland Code. Mine is SIA.]



I wake up at 10:00 A.M, climb out of a black-duveted bed with acid green and black striped linen sheets, go to my ebony Armoire and slip on a black ankle-length flamenco skirt with purple ruffles, black leather punk boots with thick leather straps fastened with chunky black buckles on either side for decoration and a black corset top, tie my copper-coloured corn braided hair in little-kid pigtails and put on heavy black eyeliner, black mascara and apply black colourstay lipstick. I eat 2 ham and cheese toasted sandwiches, my breakfast, and drink a Diet Coke form the can to wake me up. I then go and brush my teeth and pop 3 pieces of spearmint chewing gum into my mouth. I snatch a small black leather backpack with CHAMY written on the straps in red script, and Emily the Strange, My Chemical Romance and Evanescence badges all over the front and place a black woolen spider web cardigan inside the bag. I pull on a black leather jacket; grab a black motorcycle helmet with silver flames and walk out the door of my three-bedroom townhouse in Brooklyn, New York, tug on the helmet and straddle a black 2000 Harley Davidson motorcycle and drive to a big red-brick building, where I park my bike in a space that says RESERVED – STAFF MOTORCYCLES ONLY on the ground in yellow letters, slide off the jacket, put it inside the bag, pull out and slide on the cardigan and head inside. I snatch a cinnamon doughnut from a plate on the receptionists’ desk, mumble an incoherent apology and get in an elevator to the ninth floor. The elevator stops and I stride out and call out, “Hello everybody!” I sit down at a polished mahogany desk and pull a black and white laptop from my bag. I begin to type and then an acne-faced teenager comes up to me and says, “Bianca, I really need help with my story.” I say okay, while rubbing the smooth clear Ivory skin on my face and arms, thanking the Lord that my acne disappeared 8 years ago and I managed to get my freckles lasered off, thanks to technology. My emerald green contact-lensed eyes are reflected briefly in my thin black wire-framed glasses as I clean them. I get up, walk over to the teenager’s computer and begin to give her pointers on writing.

My dream ends here.