By Dave MacDonald

Few people have the opportunity to tell their dreams to others, but I, as a Westerner reporter, have the printed page to share my innermost secrets with fellow students. My dream, or should I call it a nightmare, may be of interest to many, if not, at least it fills a blank space on page three.

I had finished a brief snack of pizza, coke and pickled herring before going to bed and was able to sleep quite well for while. Suddenly a feeling of utter shock and complete, unadulterated horror shook my body into consciousness, even though I was still asleep. I found myself at a dance, wearing a corsage made from a potted palm which was inscribed, "don't palm me off." I saw many students there, "best attended dance of the year," I heard a girl named Foss telling one of her friends.

Egad, who was I dancing with? She seemed like a nice girl, but I don't remember asking her to my dance. Come to think of it, she picked me up at my house with her parent's car, she had already purchased the tickets, and she opened the car door for me, which is pretty weird when you consider that many boys don't open the door for their dates.

Wait a minute, could this be the evening of February 17, between the hours of 8:30 p.m. and 11:30 p.m.? If it is, there is a possibility, as kooky as it may seem, that I'm at the Girl's Choice dance. Nah, it couldn't be; besides, it's only a dream.