Nobody cares about your weird dreams, Mary

I was trapped in a windowless room with our motion graphics guy and D’Angelo, both of whom wanted to do karaoke, even though they knew full well that karaoke makes me terribly uncomfortable and I don’t like it. I tried to talk the motion graphics guy and D’Angelo out of this plan, and was rummaging in my bag for something with which to entertain/distract them, but before I could locate anything other than an old issue of Harper’s they started to sing, loudly, with gestures, and I begged them to stop but they wouldn’t, so I sat in the corner and put my arms over my head.
I got arrested (??) at a Callista Gingrich event in New York (????), and after getting out of jail I spent hours on the phone trying to reach an editor at the New York Times, which had erroneously described me as “a reporter” who was detained. No one I spoke with seemed to care when I said I was not a reporter, and they kept putting me on hold and passing me on to other people, and finally a man yelled at me for bothering him, which made me cry, and then I confessed that I had “behaved like a reporter in the past.” They refused to issue a correction.
I was in a cab in Paris, or a movie set intended to look like Paris, and I couldn’t be sure which it was. I also wasn’t sure if I was in the movie or not.
There were no apostrophes anywhere on the internet and it drove me crazy.
A bird flew in the window and lectured me about my throat chakra.