The derision leveled at writers who end their stories with "it was all just a dream" is often rooted in the feeling that this narrative device disappoints the reader and undermines the integrity of the plot.

But what if like, I announce right up front that this is the dream I had last night? I think that's OK ...

I'm in my motel room. It's pretty 1970s. Very dated. I'm picking up my tablet off the bed and this young mid-20s woman walks in. She's wearing octagonal sunglasses, jeans, boots, and some faux army fatigue top made for women. She's medium height, slim, but not really attractive. She acknowledges me with a look and a bit of a nod, like you'd do in a coffee shop, then she sits down at my round white 70s table and unpacks her notebook and pen and stuff from her macrame and leather purse and then lights up a cigarette (?) and blows out a huge cloud of smoke. I put a question mark there because there's too much smoke for it to be a cigarette. I feel like it must have been a vape pen. Plus the smoke had no smell. Can you smell in dreams?

I say, "Hello."

"Hello, how are you?" she says, as normal as anything. It's plain that she's only answering out of politeness. She could care less that I'm standing there, in my own motel room.

I say, "I'm pretty good," I'm interested in finding out a little more about her before I drop the hammer and tell her that this isn't a coffee shop, it's a motel room that I paid for and she's going to have to leave. But I've got nothing going on for the moment. I'm not in a rush and I'm still in full control of this situation.

Of course, I'm completely wrong about that last part.

She says, "Wow, it's hot out there." and then before I can respond she says, "Where is he?!" and with that I fairly well cease to exist for her. I wasn't expecting that. Before I can say anything, a man walks in from the bathroom. (What? There is no entry there.) apologizes to the girl for being late, sits at the table, lights his own vape/cigarette and starts pulling beer bottles out of a big cardboard box he's carrying. I can't tell if he even sees me or not.

"heyyy..." I say, but I trail off. I'm losing control of this situation. I catch the girl's eye. "you have to leave," I say, not loudly.

And again, before I can tell her why she's got to go, she talks right over me, "Is that so?" And then she turns and I lose her attention. It's all very Jean Paul Sartre and of course! I was briefly thinking of Sartre while awake recently! At least that part makes sense now. Essentially my take on Sartre is the moment someone leaves your field of vision they cease to exist.

Anyway a la Sartre, every time she turns away from me I get the feeling like I cease to exist. Like if I yelled, she wouldn't hear me. I can only talk to her when she's facing me, acknowledging me, but she does that only fleetingly. And just as I'm about to speak, she turns away and I'm gone for her. How can I get rid of someone if I'm not even there?

Suddenly a whole bunch more people enter, all at once. Like 20 more people. The hotel room is full now. Old ladies, children, and everything in between. All the skin colors of the rainbow. It's the United Nations in the room now. I think there was even someone in a wheelchair. They're all carrying stuff too. Food, and chairs and bags and clothes. Radios playing music - more than one. Very unlike me, I don't get mad at this point, I get scared. I've lost control now. I become worried about my possessions. My tablet is no longer in my hands. I don't remember where it is or if I even had one. I don't remember what it looks like, but I don't want it to get stolen. I'm overly concerned with people stealing possessions that I'm not even sure I possess.

It's very noisy around me. I decide to call the front desk. I pick up the phone. But it's a child's toy phone. Red and white, heavy plastic. With the 12 push buttons like they had in the 80s, but the numbers are all out of order and each button also has an incomprehensible pictograph on it. There are instructions printed on it, upper left side that show how to call the front desk, but it's confusing - it all mixed up with how to call the gym, the spa, the restaurant, room service. This is a very up-market dream motel apparently. I try 112, 114, and then I just hit 0. I hear clicking but no one answers. Finally I give up and decide to call 911, but as I said the numbers are out of order on the keys, so by following what's on the buttons, I end up typing 463. It's very noisy in the room now. So many people. I'm getting more and more agitated by the chaos. I decide to type in 911 based on my memory of where those keys are. I think it's lower-right once and then upper-left twice but it doesn't work. (and "awake me" has just checked - I was hitting #-1-1, not 9-1-1. No wonder the dream operator never answered.) People are touching me now. Brushing up against me and bumping me - invading my personal space big time. My presence is no longer acknowledged. I'm invisible. I'm scared and my fear makes me ashamed and angry. So I wake up.

It's 4:30AM. Too late to fall back asleep. Too early to get up because the gym doesn't open until 6.

===

Possible causes for parts of the dream:

• I recently splurged on a tablet and I'm not sure I even want or need one.
• I'm always thinking about cigarettes.
• Me and Sophie were talking about macrame on Sunday.
• I was also mansplaining Sartre to her just yesterday.
• We attended an outdoor concert last Saturday and I was uncomfortable in the chaotic crowd, but I went anyway because she wanted to go.

I think I might be insane but that's just a sign of creativity. So I'll likely be rich soon because of it.