Dear Mr. Powell,

Last night, I had a dream that I was working in your office. You, of course, were genial but serious. Then, you made a crack about a co-worker wearing Army boots to the office. “Yeah,” I agreed, “she doesn’t really have that pummeling sensibility.” (I know, I know, “pummeling sensibility?” It’s a dream, OK? It doesn’t have to be grammatically perfect.)
Immediately, you turned on me. “What are you saying about me when I wear Army boots?” you asked me. Then you called the three of us into a private conference in the bathroom. Unfortunately, the bathroom happened to be the one in my current Montreal apartment, which is really too small to fit three people comfortably. So, you got into the tub (yes, I know my bathroom doesn’t have a tub. Just bear with me).
As I desperately tried to explain myself to the both of you, I woke up before making a coherent point. So, for the record, I would like to inform you that you don’t necessarily need to have a “pummeling sensibility” to wear Army boots, and likewise that wearing them doesn’t make you a bully in and of itself.
Just wanted to clear the record. I apologize for any misconceptions.