Urinating On Myself  I'm walking down the street by my dad's old house. My friends Mya Rousing, Virginia Green, Marybeth Neumann, and a co-worker from college, Megan Hughes, are there. We cross the intersection on Friends Avenue, near the railroad tracks. A woman I know from college named Jenna is there. She hands me part of a roll of toilet paper. Bart Simpson is being tortured for playing a trick on his siblings. His chin is cut with a sharp knife. His fingertips are cut off. I am in that place. I grab the knives and kill the torturers and their accomplices, slicing them and beating them. There are 10 or 15 of them. I walk by my dad's house with the group. I see Julie, who is a first year student at Brimson that I met. I say hi. We ask how each other are doing. She tells me that she had a dream. I sit by her and listen as she tells me the dream. It is a short dream about shoes. She says that ever since she had the dream she has felt bad. While I listen to the dream, I'm sitting on the back of a boat, which is on the ground. Other fishing equipment is also on the ground. We go inside to do a quick dream interview. It starts to rain, downpour, as we do. I tell the other people I am with to go on without me. I get a pen and piece of paper. We turn the lights on. She asks me to let her know if I see a box of laundry detergent. I go to the bathroom. There are all kinds of detergents sitting in a big group on the floor. I urinate. I have on gray sweatpants. The toilet is very small, six to eight inches in diameter. I urinate all over the sweatpants, dripping. I want to make the spots on the sweatpants look like rainwater instead of urine. I use a towel to dry the pants. The sink is where the shower used to be. The crotch of my sweatpants nearly goes down to my ankles, even when I have them pulled up! That is why I urinate on my pants.