In the dream, he was beyond help. In the dream, he was elephantine, and made larger because of his limitless anger. Walking towards the house we were hiding in with sure-footed, capable determination. In the dream, he was hunting us with deranged hostility, and his final impending act of violence towards Her (and us) was ripe with justifications that we could not reason with. In the dream, he seemed to be submerged in mental illness, or–perhaps, by just the tiniest margin of possibility—suffering from the inevitable result of a lifetime spent in wholehearted rejection of personal and social responsibility. Getting what he wanted through force. Verbal; physical; shoving, hitting, choking. Shortcuts. Using anger as the quickest way to power. In the dream, we were incredibly frightened. So scared. Because there is something evil in rabid emotion. And I had to aim the gun just so, otherwise it might not kill him.
If I was in charge of the Universe, the flu would come with a servant and $500 cash. If I was in charge of the Universe, cars would have LCD monitors that displayed to other drivers, “I’m so sorry” “Get your act together” or “Put the freaking phone down.”
My Cognitive Psychology class confirmed the matter of the twenty years old lotion bottle. At least from a scientific perspective. “Olfactory cues can trigger powerful memories and emotional responses,” Dr. Kroll had said.