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Monday, January 26, 2004

Last night, I dreamt I was peacefully in my room at night when I heard the sound of helicopters. A black helicopter hovered outside my window, as spies got out and lined up outside my room. I had a dark sense that this was the outcome of the Patriot Act; the government was now spying on every citizen, making sure none could turn against their rulers. I rushed to my closet, clutching a teddy bear and hoping they couldn’t see me in the darkness. However, soon the wall was merely a large set of blinds separating the room from the outside, and an agent of the FBI began observing my moves. I hoped that they wouldn’t be able to see me in the dark, but alas, it would have been better to stay in my room; I made myself obvious with the limited space in the closet, and the darkness was no help with their flashlights. The agent reached in and felt around my teddy bear, finding my hands and making me leap into action...

“My name is [Leticia’s real name]!” I barked. “Who are you and what do you want with me?!”

At the front of the squad were two women, one tall and with black hair, the other ash blonde and slightly stumpy. The black haired woman—the one who touched my hands—assured me of something (I don’t remember what), as the blonde woman questioned me.

They seemed like nice fellows, despite their gray suits and secretive demeanor. Perhaps I would have hung out with them under different circumstances. But anyway...

The blonde woman decided to probe my creativity. “Tell me a story about... us,” she said, gesturing towards her troop. I smiled and said, sassily, “I like you.” It was true; I searched my brain for a way to say that I hated them all and the Patriot Act nonsense, but that I liked that this woman was trying to appeal to my sense of storytelling to find out more of who I am.

I noticed that she had, on her gray uniform, a Subway logo patch. I found it kind of charming; it seemed as though it was meant to humble her so that she could appear more welcoming. Really, despite the prestige of her FBI get-up, it was not much more different than a uniform at a fast-food joint.

I smiled a little as I tried to think of a good story. Let’s see, I thought, they’re spies, so they must live on the fringes of society...
Naturally, I thought about it too hard, and woke up.

“...but alas, forks are not so forgiving. Animatronic buffoons do not the best gardens make, but spoons of a different color can change one’s life indeed.”

--Nobody
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