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I remember one clearly: while at a sports arena, watching a football game, I had to urinate like a zebra fresh from the watering hole. The bathroom itself was very open, as the doorways were large cement threshholds, and most of the lighting was natural. There was a very creepy, middle aged man who had followed me down to the restrooms: thining, cinnamon-brown hair, a pasty, desperate complexion, and the type of trailer-stricken face one would expect to see sticking out of his red, flanel jacket. As the game was running, head-long, toward that endzone of "suspenseful," the bathroom was mostly deserted, and I found myself sitting on a toilet, with this man's pedophilic, steel eyes watching me from the doorway. There was so much tension in that moment of the dream, <i>conflict</i>, like a voyeuristic raping. I remember feeling vulnerable and violated the day I woke up after that.
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