No matter how cool it may have seemed while dreaming, a Habitrail water park is probably a bad idea.

I'm at an old girlfriend's house, or is it a store? The girl is no one in particular, a portmanteau of features merely labeled "old girlfriend."
She is only half-dressed, one false eyelash askew when I arrive, but is somehow more together when customers arrive, pulling on an oversize sweater as she answers the knocking door and turns on the neon open sign.
I look through a bookshelf, glancing at the spines of unfamiliar volumes as a woman complains about a jeweled t-shirt, then wander as more customers enter, looking at knickknacks.
An off-putting sight: cats in sealed environments, alive, but with their innards exposed through gaping, dripping holes, organs and kittens within. They chew on one another's wounds, nurse one another, recursive generation and decay. I feel sick.
A man asks me where something is. "I don't do this," I say, looking up from the enclosure. "I don't work here. Go away."
I wake up with numb and tingling hands.