I'm a little worried about this dream

I'm signed up for some writing workshop, and when I walk in I put down my purse and all of my writing books at a seat at one of the tables and get in line for my nametag. There aren't anymore of the fancy big rectangular nametags left, so they're searching everywhere trying to find me something to use in its place. Finally they write my name in huge childish letters with a red marker and give it to me, but it doesn't stick. Have at it, Freud, but hold on, there's more. When I go to find my seat with all my stuff, it's gone. My purse is gone--identity, hello--and all of my books about writing are gone, too. I have nothing--no money, no ID, no trident (ha!), no books, no pens, no paper. And when I ask people for help, nobody really does much of anything. So I decide I'm going to take Annabelle and move out of the place we're living now.

Stripped of everything and my response is to get my dog and go. Not too far off, I suppose.

So much for ambiguity, eh? Get your girl and run.