i won't let go, i won't let go even if you say so, oh no

by mg at 10:44 AM on July 20, 2004

Last night I actually had a dream about Bad Samaritan. I can safely say this is the first time I’ve ever had a dream about a website, because, technically, that first time was a dream about Bea Arthur herself, and not that collection of nude photographs I found of her online.

Way the hell back when I first got to college, and had 24-hour computer labs at my disposal, I got sucked into the whole Doom thing. My friends would sit in a lab all night, chasing each other through mazes, and fragging each other, and occasionally demon-alien things. There were many nights (rather, early mornings between when I finally left the lab and had to wake up for classes) when I’d fall asleep still running through mazes and killing demon-alien things.

But, never a dream about a website.

I never remember my dreams. The only reason I remember this dream last night was because I was woken up in the middle of it by a fussy baby. Franny has yet to wake us up crying, knock on particleboard, but she can get noisy. There is absolutely something hard-wired into us humans to be extra vigilant and responsive to baby noises. Besides, so Franny is so damn cute , I don’t mind waking up.

So, in this dream some hax0r had hacked Bad Samaritan, and dumped all the past four years of stories, discussions, and pictures. Now, you might ask why anyone would want to hack a little blog. Who knows, but it has happened before; just ask Adam, who is a refugee from Surreally.

I woke up with Franny in the middle of the night, but then went back to bed. When I woke up for real, the idea of BadSam having been hacked was deep in the back of my head, so much so that I couldn’t remember whether it was real or whether it was a dream. As soon as I was conscious enough to think straight, much less type, I logged on, and there she was, BadSamaritan.com, in all her glory, and I cried out “I love you, I love you, I love you. Don’t ever leave me again, even if it is only a dream.” The wife thought I was talking about her. If it wasn't in the six-week postpartum period, I think I might have even gotten lucky.