Some event had happened such as a kid running away or missing or getting killed and I was out and somehow wound up on a city beach (which weirdly looked like the beach in Lake Michigan Beach, Mich.) Now I know it was a dream because I actually got to leave the office, which never happens in real life. There were a handful of folks around, there for a search party or something like that, and there was one cop standing on said beach. He saw me and somehow knew I was a reporter and asked (without saying anything I should add) which one I was there for -- I wondered for just a second, then saw a really fat naked body (white male, bald, if you must know) a little bit away from everyone else, with a thin sheet over him.
I don't know if the fat beached guy was someone people were looking for or what, but I know I felt a thrill upon seeing him, and knowing that no other reporter knew about this guy.
So that's it. I guess I'm not sick of my job yet. Dreaming about dead people and not getting bothered by it doesn't make me a sick person, though (but maybe saying out loud that I hope someone dies from a fire or accident in a certain suburb where the 'spokesperson' doesn't live up to her job title because that's the only way anyone would get any information on said horrible incident just might make me a sicko. That's what Hildy Johnson was talking about.)