Burning bridges, building bunkers

I rarely remember my dreams. When I do they’re almost always nightmares. I am a very well-adjusted young man (anyone has a problem with me using young to describe myself? No? Excellent).

Last night I dreamt I was standing on a cliff or something rock-ish, watching a long rope bridge across a gorge. Yes, I admit, I expected thugees to appear, chasing an archeologist with a lopsided smile and a wrinkled fedora. But no such luck. Instead the thing started burning, and tumbled into the gorge. Looking down I realized I held a can of gasoline in my hand. Not the gas station kind, but the honest to goodness olds-school arsonist kind, round and with a spout. Then I woke up.

Shadow: What did you do to that little girl?
Ronald: It's not fair, Shadow.
Shadow: What did you do to that little girl?
Ronald: I burned her.
Shadow: You burned her. What do you do to old ladies, Ronald?
Ronald: Burn them.
Shadow: And what about the world, Ronald? What would you like to do with the whole world?
Ronald: Burn it all.

So am I harboring arsonist fantasies? Nope. Am I thinking about burning a bridge or two? The thought has crossed my mind. Today, and other days. More on that some other time.

And some more love at home today.

We made tortillas, and as we learned this weekend, they fall apart easily, just laying there on the plate. I decided it would be a good idea to stick a fork through my first one, holding it shut.
Me: Maybe you should use a fork too?
Mah Girl: Yes. But then you would be right.