In my dream, I am in the cafeteria at a mall and my friend Aaron is giving me a bunch of hand me down clothes. They are size XXL, but Aaron has never, ever, in the history of the world been that size in real life. I unfold a maroon polo and see on the black tag in the collar that its size is X(G). As I'm refolding a pair of khaki trousers, Stephen Fry and his wife come up to the table at which I'm sitting. I tell him that I hope he doesn't mind that Aaron gave me the clothes that he had given to Aaron.
Later, I'm entering the mall through one of the anchor stores -- it's a swanky store like Macys or Bloomingdales -- with my boyfriend on my way to work. He is wearing a white shirt and dress pants and has short blonde hair. (I have no idea who this man is in real life.) I walk past a mirror and see that I am wearing a short-sleeved white shirt with a silver name tag that identifies me as "John" and "Assistant Manager" of Musicland. As we're about to cross out of the store into the mall proper, I remind him that he will have to come pick me up after work at 12:45 in the morning. As we part, he turns around and walks back to through the store the way we came. He seems aggravated.
I walk down the mall; it is more like a library or city hall common area. As I start to pass a group of people sitting on benches on the left side of the mall, I recoginze one of the men as a former President of the United States. He is aged and has yellowed, stained teeth. He speaks with a Southern accent. I can't seem to place him though, eventually settling on President Humphrey for his identity.
At the far end of the mall is a throng of people listening to a man with a long beard, in black suit and black broad-rimmed hat speaking. He is talking about a murder trial and is remarking to the crowd -- who are apparently reporters and who are dressed for cold weather in 1940s fashion -- about how it didn't make sense for the murderer to use wax as the substance would easily imprison evidence.
I must be losing my mind.