This time, I was a 20-something on-again off-again recovering alcoholic with dark brown hair, living in a guest house on the estate of Liam Neeson and Al Pacino. (Apparently my subconscious thinks they'd make a good pair). I was offered the living quarters by Neeson, when he saw me at a mall after closing time, and I told him I had nowhere to go but was willing to do odd jobs in exchage for a place to live. Note that this was not true; in fact, I could have gone to my parents' house, but I wanted to live with Neeson and Pacino and be their handy-person.
So Neeson and Pacino took me in, and I did odd jobs and made friends with the gardener. I stayed in the aforementioned guest house, which had lots of windows and was done up with sparse clean-lines furniture in sunny shades of orange and yellow. There were beautiful reeds and grasses growing in neat patches outside, and some in pots around the room.
Anyway, apparently my drinking problem resurfaced, and they were keeping pretty close tabs on me to make sure I didn't fall off the wagon. But one night when they were having a big party, I snuck out through a passage in one of the bathrooms (uhm, yeah), went with my personal trainer to a movie at an old revival house in Hollywood, and got a tattoo of three "T"s on my forearm. When I got back in the morning, they were pissed, but they didn't kick me out of the house. They just made me promise not to do it again.
Seriously, these dreams make even less sense than the spam oracle.