Regarding the dream: Well, the part I remember is folks being over at my place and critiquing the old radio tuner/console that I got from my dad's effects (Happy Fathers' Day, orphans/Batmen). And they were ripping on the fact that it's missing a few knobs or switches or whatever. But, you know, whatever I got from my dad, in terms of either physical possessions or genetics or personality traits or whatever—well, it's mine. For better or for worse. I am who I am. And if you don't like it, you can either help me fix it, or get the fuck out of my home.
Last night, there was a girl who was somewhat snidely incredulous that I carry a Leatherman most everywhere I go, even while I was fixing her favorite necklace with it. Form follows function, people. If you don't like my tools, I can always take them elsewhere.
This is the kind of standoffishness I was worried about. I'm not this insufferable in real life. If anything, I'm not insufferable enough.
