pina colada = crazy dream(s)

Not my usual drink, but summer is confronting us soon, so I enjoyed one last night with some friends. My dreams are a bit big, so a bit tangled too. I write as I remember:

On the side of a road with friends and two of my ex professors, they are thrilled to see me and much looser than they ever were while on campus. Both professors are smoking cigarettes - while I knew the one did, the other seems a big surprise. We are talking writing and they are encouraging me to do something ... some kind of contest or reading. We walk them to their cars and they throw their arms around me before they hop in and disappear.
Next everything gets a bit ... more. Lots going on. I am in a large room with chairs set up through out, people are everywhere though I don't really recognize anyone. A murder has occurred and there is a television nearby relaying every single bit of information on the case. I am transfixed. A movie star blond is the suspect. A tall man approaches me and reminds me of my role in all of this: I owe someone my left thumb, and I must pick one of my fingers to cut off and eat. I am horrified and begin to walk away from him. Not only does he follow but he has gathered supporters and they are reminding me, in unison, of "my word" and how it must be kept.
I grow frantic and find myself inside my childhood home. The large front bay window is undressed and I see a group of reporters and police walking up our hilly driveway to talk with me. They have freaky grimaces on their faces. When they knock I tell them calmly that I will not open the door. Somehow I have now become the suspect in the death of a man I do not know/never met.
The scene switches momentarily and I am among the "finger" people again, outside where clothes are out drying on a line. My husband is there and we get into an argument - I don't know whose side he is on. I have a pair of scissors in my hand and I am waving them around as I grow more frantic and speak/yell with my hands. I nic the right cheek of my husband's face and the thin gash quickly spills over with lots of blood. I apologize, and he seems to realize it was an accident, but the others are not as easily convinced. I have given them more ammunition to believe that I am the killer.
I am back in my childhood house and there are reporters and police coming again to collect and question me. I recognize one lady - a bitch I worked with before; her face is broad with glee, she's getting off that I am in such a position - it's pasted on her face. I tell them again that I will not open the door.
Dark patches of faces and conversations thread through until finally I am beside some investigators as they are removing a body from a car off the side of a dark road. These men, who before scared hell out of me, now smile and joke with me as they pull a blood-soaked body from the back-seat.
The true story unfolds: the movie star did kill the man because he was abusive, then under the threat of life in prison, or worse, she took her own life and wrote out her confession/circumstances. I am exonerated and swiftly pulled from the crowd by the "top dog", he stands me against a white wall and in front of a large crowd applauds my "toughness" and unwillingness to speak with reporters and police. I'm still in shock and stare out blankly.