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…My parents have been fighting. I think my mom has left. My dad explains that he has gambling problem (no he doesn’t!), and when he plays with money, it makes my mother have nervous breakdowns. Maybe she is at the hospital… I am leaving town with my colleagues to go at the call centre’s retreat in a little isolated cottage next to a convenience store in front of the fleuve Saint-Laurent. My cute colleague is there with his girlfriend. He is in the process of choosing between me and her. His dog is also here, except it's made out of Oreo cookies. (?!?) I am being told that I can eat one. I take the easiest one to pick. When I am about to eat it, I realize I took its butt. I wonder if I should put it in my mouth. But who cares? It’s just a cookie! So I take a bite. The white middle is actually made of marshmallows, so it’s not really an Oreo. The whitish marshmallow stuff is melting and dripping out of the cookie to leave a spot on the floor, right in front of me. It looks like I just… Ha ha ha!!! …My mom is here. She says we are about to leave, that I should take a bath or a shower before. There is a bathroom with a bath and another with a shower. I have two… no: three apples in my bag. No: they are displayed on a shelf in one of the bathrooms. They are starting to rot. I pick the less rotten one. I am going to eat it in the bath… No: in the shower… We are leaving in a car. I am on the backseat next to an old lady. There is a lot of luggage, and also a guitar. There is no room, so I try to reorganize the disposition of the many bags and the guitar. I take the old lady’s handbag and tell her I’ll put it back on her knees when I’m done. I tell the driver I put the guitar behind his seat, the strings facing the backseat, just so he (or she?) doesn’t move back the driver’s seat. But we are already in front of the airport. I take my bag and I get out of the car with the old lady, leaving my task unfinished. We are in a large room in the airport and I have to walk her up some stairs. For some reason, I leave my bag downstairs. I am just walking her to where she has to go; I’ll come back after; I’m going somewhere else. Maybe I am not allowed to bring it. (Still, it’s a dumb decision.) As I help her climbing the stairs, she reprimands me for not putting her handbag back on her knees. But I never had time to finish my task of reorganizing the bags and the guitar. And besides, she has her handbag right as we speak. So what’s the big deal, old lady? I go back downstairs and – I should have expected this – my bag has disappeared. They must have thought there was a bomb in it. I am sort of hyperventilating, looking everywhere around the room. What about my clothes? My wallet? When I am about to give up, I find it next to a table where three Arab girls are sitting. I shout at them that this is my bag. They say it’s not. I open it and see my things. They all look embarrassed. I ask them (in English) “Do you want ME to steal your bags?”…