Wave of Mutilation

Last night's dream weighed anchor in unchartered waters: the oceans of metaphorical interpretation. I start as a passenger aboard a commercially-designed clipper; even the guests wear old fashionede rags, to keep the voyage somewhere in the vicinity of the authentic. I was wearing teal. Through a series of misfortunes and by the commander officer's extreme dislike for me, however, I turn from happy-go-lucky modern passenger to archaic, brig-chained prisoner - in teal underwear. I'm not so sure about the teal, but the dream is definitely a subconscious poke at my feelings toward the restaurant, and my boss. Hmph.