Forced Healings, an Accident, the Posh Therapist

I’m in a dorm room preparing for class. I find a rather cool touchpad device that I seems to be similar to my smartphone. It has a number of well-crafted, polished buttons all over it. I talk to a dorm-mate about it. He says it’s some ninja’s who in is our class. I hang out with some girl classmates. We are laying around, informally snuggling or napping next to one another. I’m attracted to them. I either snuggle or attack a girl. Rather that an attack, I find I’m pressing with concentration under her blouse on a mole on her sternum. This cures her of some shameful thing in her past. She’s says “it’s hard for a girl brought up as a Muslim slave to enter into the space program.”

I’m leaving the parking lot. There has been a huge accident. A sportscar has been totaled. The front of my car had been crushed as well. Someone must have drive perpendicular into these parked cars. I see some guys, college age. The caused the accident. They are nice guys; they apologize. They hand me an insurance address. No, it’s no insurance address; its the government agency they work for; they are uninsured. I’m not going to get coverage from them. I take this well, impervious to financial considerations, and talk convivially with them. One guy admires my shoes, which are getting warn. He says he’d love to have them. I tell him I was about to order some new ones for myself and he’s welcome to them.

I go into the building. There is a business party going on. A man’s face is begins to puff to ghastly proportions. I ram my hand into his face and cure him. He is gingerly grateful.

I go into the hall and see this very posh young man. This is the pyshcologist with the fancy touch device. I already have a therapist; I will see him anyway.