Sometimes, people come up to my desk and start talking to me in a language that I do not speak.  And sometimes, the people refuse to allow me to call an interpreter, and they  insist on talking louder in the language that I do not speak.  This leads to great confusion.  And sometimes, that confusion is compounded when a messenger arrives with flowers and candy from my honey, and I don't know whether to feel the happy surprise from the love-gifts, or the panicky distress from the mystery-yellers.  

On my morning commute, I tromped down the stairs to the Red Line and accidentally found myself face to face with some strange man.  He had his arms crossed over his chest, and did not seem in a hurry to get anywhere, unlike everyone else in the subway.  So, you know how sometimes you find yourself locked into eye contact with someone, and time stops and you can't figure out how to make it start again so you can look away and end the horrifying awkwardness?  Yeah, that happened.  It was very early, and I was still partly asleep and not sure if the things around me were real or just very dull dreams. So, there we were, spellbound in uncomfortable (for me) eye contact, neither of us moving.  Then I heard the rumble of the train approaching.  Very slowly, and without breaking the eye contact, the strange man raised his arm and pointed at the oncoming train.  It was just like that moment in A Christmas Carol when the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come points Ebeneezer toward the mysterious tombstone that bears his own name.  I finally broke out of the time bubble, turned away, and got on my train.  So, yeah, I'm pretty sure that guy was Death, and I just wasn't the one he was there for.  

So I had this dream that I was sitting in an ice cream parlor with a talking squirrel.  The squirrel told me that October was National Be Nice To Squirrels Month.  Then there was an awkward silence while the squirrel looked at me.  I got up, went to the ice cream toppings bar, and got him a little cup full of chopped walnuts.  The squirrel crammed them all in his mouth and ran out the shop without saying "Thank You."  

Jon's successful home brew.

I have no dignity when it's hot out.  

Holding onto urine is not part of my job description.  

My office floats away in the rain.

I dreamed I was in a museum, and I was told to interpret the meaning of a sculpture titled "The Drowning Man."  The sculpture consisted of a large wooden spiral staircase, with the torso of a stone-faced man rising from the center, reaching toward the top step, which was covered in fountain pens.

I saw a man with the Most Magnificent Unibrow.  He was working in a cafeteria.  The unibrow was like a thick black McDonalds logo, a child's drawing of a seagull plastered above his eyes.  

There's an explanation for this one.  I scratched my arm a little bit, so I put a band-aid on it.  An hour or so later, it felt weird, so I removed the band-aid.  Turns out, I had developed an allergy to the adhesive in band-aids.  My entire forearm was now covered in a bright red, painfully blistered rash oozing yellow fluid.  And since I couldn't put a band-aid on that, I had to wrap gauze all the way around my arm.  It took eight months to heal, and still recurs a little bit occasionally.  So that's why I wanted the time machine.  I just wanted to stop Past Jenn Bean from applying that band-aid.  I wouldn't use it to step on butterflies and alter the course of the universe or anything.