I had another TV news dream last night. Unlike most of my other TV news dreams, this one was set in a specific station for which I once worked.
I won't mention the call letters, but it was the one with crazy general manager, the drug-addicted news director and all the cutey honey anchors who didn't know the difference between a U.S. Senator and a state representative, but did know the MAC Cosmetics toll-free hotline and superagent Ken Lindner's cell phone number.
(Yes, I know that description doesn't narrow it down any. That was the idea.)
All I remember about this dream was that I was back in the station after an absence of many many years, yet no one seemed surprised to see me there. There was a point where, for some reason, I needed to go from one room to another. I opened the door, and there was another door behind it. It wasn't locked, but it was kind of stuck in the door frame, and I had to yank on it a couple of times to get it open. And when I did, there was yet another door behind the second one. That was when I woke up.
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