So my family and I were on a driving tour through Vegas in a convertible that looked like a hot dog bun. For reasons I still cannot remember, the person I hate most in the world was in the bunmobile with us. I thought he would behave himself because my parents and brother were there, but he kept making biting asides that were obviously about me. Then he tried to choke me and force himself on me. Then the scene replayed, but I got to say and do all the things I wanted to do but didn't the first time round ("I get a do-over!"). I kicked him in the groin and dislocated his jaw with my fists of fury, yelling all the while, "you're the most disgusting thing I've ever seen; get your fucking hands off me!" (thanks Mer and Alex Sanderson for that).
Then we arrived at our destination, which was apparently a press conference being held at famous runway model Anna Selezneva's new luxury hotel. For the event, she was wearing a different kind of boot on either foot. She declared it a fashion trend, as well as being very practical for her infamously shorter left leg since her left boot had a thicker sole. I applauded her ingenuity and took plenty of pictures. Then I realized that she really looked more like Sasha Pivovarova than Anna Selezneva. During the press conference, a SWAT team broke through the picture windows and declared that Sasha/Anna's family had just been murdered and that she was either the prime suspect or the next target. They couldn't decide whether to arrest her or protect her. The put me in charge of looking after her, but they made the mistake of leaving the dismembered bodies of her family in the room with us. Anna/Sasha started to freak out, and just at that moment Patrick Jane/Simon Baker from CBS's The Mentalist showed up to film the event for the show's upcoming reality episode. I told him I was a big fan and somehow tried to sell him the clothing from ML that I had ordered especially for a jovial Syrian family. I also tried to get him to read my future even though I knew he was just an actor who played a character who had only pretended to be a psychic.
Then we were at my messy studio apartment in Bristol, trying to protect Anna/Sasha from the murderers we were sure were after her. Ken Nickel, my philosophy professor, showed up to lend his aid, but he said that he had to do some work while keeping watch. He took out a stack of papers that had already been graded and wrote scathing comments all over them just for the hell of it. All the papers were on the same topic: What is a Heidegger, and if so, who are your Kierkegaard?
Sometimes a Heidegger is just a Heidegger.
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