And I am full of smoldering rage. Last night I dreamed of two boys picking on me in church. I had put on a white dress, delicate, with pearls sown into the creases. It covered my everyday ordinary clothes. The boys were vicious, they scratched me, called me names. I was furious - I grabbed one by the shirt and told him he ought to be ashamed of himself. He stroked his crotch in response. I spat in his eye. The parents took him away to my relief, but then I noticed the priest was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned to the navel. A heavy crucifix hung around his neck on a thick gold chain, like a gangbangers's accessory. I went home to a beautiful room, polished wood floors, one bed too many, which, I concluded, needed to be removed to make ample space for a perfect life. My parents were just behind the wall.