Last night, I dreamed I was having dinner in a swanky apartment. Counting the host, there were five people there — the others were a couple and Clark Kent. We had a lively chat around the table while our host, an old man in a tuxedo, prepared dinner. Right before the food was finished, the couple said it was time to leave, followed by the door shutting. Clark Kent then told me, "That's my cue," and sprinted off. Cue the door shutting again.
Suddenly, I was alone. I walked into the kitchen, but the host wasn't there. But I did get a glimpse of his spread — a single chicken quarter and some kind of congealed casserole. After some searching of the hallway, I could hear that he was now taking a bath. I thought about waiting for him, but waiting for a host to get out of the bathtub in the middle of his party, when no one else stuck around and the food sucked, seemed less like a good idea and more like circumstantial stalking. Cue the door slamming for a third time.
When I walked out, I suddenly wasn't wearing pants. I went back inside, found my laptop case and wore that as pants. Then I woke up to my neighbors apparently trying to shatter the wall with their argument.
I've got to stop watching Superman and Family Guy before bed. Or sleeping at all, for that matter.