So, in addition to going to see a doc about atheism in which someone reads from “the book of the Easter Bunny” (likely a nod to the recent “Simpsons” rerun in which Homer says to Ned, “and did not the Easter Bunny himself say...!”) from a big wood board, in Braille, and then this girl who was kinda cute, but I wasn’t really that attracted to, was talking to me about it, we were hugging and smiling, ’cause I told her flat out, “You’re wrong,” on this one thing, maybe from arguing at that Afghan bread girl at the farmers’ market, and I was raving about Sam Harris’ segment in the film which I’d seen, or seen something similar to parts of on YouTube, and then I was walking down lower Shattuck, like before the fire station and on the way to Berkeley Bowl with Frank B., and the Sikh from the farmers’ market, in fact, come to think of it, had opened up a storefront down there, and there was a sign that said “[Something] and Farmers Market,” and I remember thinking, “someone should tell that Punjabi dude this doesn’t really count as what English-speakers would think of as a farmers’ market.

But, Speedbump was in my dream. In a picture. And The Baby. And The Baby looked so old, like as old as he did in that picture I glanced at—shit, he’s about to turn two!—and I remember saying, “Fuck it, I give up, on getting him anything or even trying to be a part of his life,” but then, somehow, I obviously couldn’t mean it, huh? ’cause in the next scene I’m in some store I’ve been in before, asking the saleslady about developmentally appropriate toys for two-year-olds, and then I was in a bike shop, watching the proprietor’s kid ride a trike around like right before they were about to close. I was going to try and get a new, metal tricycle, instead of a used plastic one. They’re not cheap (at least in the dream).