Broken cups and strange dreams

Right, so I had this weird dream last night. There was this group of people, and they were going to beat me up for three days, and then kill me. They were quite open about it, there was no reason for it, and they were not happy about it. The disturbing part: Some of these people were my friends (in case anyone just got worried; not my real-life friends. In fact, they weren't based on real people at all). So I pleaded with them to stop, mostly because I didn't want to be killed (I would guess this is pretty normal), but also because I didn't want to kill them. You see, the only way to get out of this pickle would be to murder them, one by one, over this three-day period. So while they were simply toying with me, beating me around like a crash test dummy, I was constantly trying to
trick them in ways that would end in their deaths. But of course I didn't succeed, because I couldn't kill my friends, and the others were to plain strong for me. The dream cut off after the second day, when I was planning some serious mass murder. It was a cliffhanger ending that I hope will continue tonight; because I really liked this dream. It was like an exciting movie, it had all the important elements: Unmotivated violence, intrigue, emotional dilemmas, and a very real sense of danger and loss.

Does thinking like this make me disturbed and dangerous? Or was this dream simply a parable of the way I think of my life? Of course, there were some additional details.. but I'm keeping those for myself.

Anyway, storytime: My very first taste of coffee came from a small, blue cup, handmade and hand-painted. I later bought this cup, the very same one, and I've had it with me ever since. I've used it for coffee, as a urinal when no other option was available, for sperm when I've been jerking off, and for money during my many begging rounds through Oslo. So you see, I've made memories with this cup, it's comforted me when I've felt lonely, and it's been my only ray of light when I've felt suicidal. And yesterday, it got broken into approxomately 37 pieces. It was broken by my (late) friend, who I lived with until I killed him and stashed his corpse in our surprisingly roomy cellar. And now I have to pay double rent. Oh well. A small price to pay for justice.
The moral of this story, of course, is this: Don't kill anyone unless you're rich.