After reading Chapter 12 of "Jayber Crow"

I awoke, staring at the knees of one of my hall mates. He was excited beyond belief to give the wonderful news: school is cancelled on account of snow. My first thoughts were surprisingly negative. "Agrruphmp" I grumbled to myself as my hall mate giddily left continuing his conversation with the air. My grouchiness was valid educationally, but when I looked outside I could justify it no longer.

You know how it is waking up to fresh snow.

After looking outside, I rolled over and started dreaming. I dreamed from the perspective of a young boy who was running in circles around a cul-de-sac trying to escape the clutches of an old woman with obvious violent intentions. I ran into a house and shut the door when Behold!, Jacob Corrbet, some other murky character, and myself sat. The only thing I remember after that is Jacob explaining to... somebody... that this group of three watches a movie in this house every week, but secretly are trying to befriend me(the young boy). That is all.

I usually do not describe dreams for many reasons. (2, I guess) As you can probably tell from the previous paragraph, it is not that easy. Characters and plot swirl back and forth sometimes making sense. Often not. Two, I have a phobia that people will think I am making my dreams up. I don't know why. Maybe it is because I always suspect "made up dreams" from everyone else. I know it is horrible for me to assume, but I cannot help it.
Sometimes when you can't think of what to say. making up a dream helps the conversation move along. I used to. All the time. Now, I am so deathly afraid that someone will find out (Using a Dream Detector or something of the sort) that I only relate dreams that really happened.

Later on, I slid and waded to my library. The doors were squeaky and loud. I think this is so the two student librarians sitting at the desk will be able to keep tabs on who Is and who Isn't in the library. When I entered their heads popped up from a pile of books, gazing wide-eyed in my direction. They looked like a pair of prairie-dogs. I stifled a chortle and purposely walked to my chair in the corner. Some people like to sit in my chair. It is understandable. He is close to four windows which let in the sun and, sitting quite close, is his best friend the Lamp. The Lamp is the only piece of furniture of its kind here in the library.

I pull him as close to his chair friend as I can (so they can catch up) and then I sit. Sometimes a friend of mine will plop down in the neighboring chair to say Hello or to have a long conversation. Sometimes I will listen to other peoples conversations as I pretend to read. Sometimes I really read.