Subconscious

Just woke up from a vivid dream in which I was riding around with the president in his SUV. He was in the far back seat, driver's side. I was riding shotgun, up front, and I was pissed, giving him a major ration of shit for turning out to be -- in so many ways -- just like every other president: duplicitous, devious and disappointing. 

What prompted my anger was the NSA data-mining program, but what pushed me over the edge was the sending of military aid (read: bombs, weapons and more death courtesy of the USA) to Syria. SYRIA. I mean, really?

I was looking back over the seat, turned three-quarters around, spitting with anger at Obama, red-faced with apoplexy, pointing at him with what might have been a child's model rocket, like the kind you launch 600-feet in the air out on the schoolyard playground. It said "nuclear weapon" along the side, and I was jabbing it at him like a blackboard pointer and shouting, over and over:

"You had your chance. You had your chance!! YOU HAD YOUR CHANCE!!!  YOU! HAD! YOUR! CHANCE!"