Am I going to blog about a dream I had like I’m 15 and it’s 1987 and I’m writing with purple marker in a notebook with pink paper? YOU BET YOUR SWEET ASS I AM!
Last night I dreamt I went to a library. Not any library I can remember ever being in, but it was wonderful — full of books and people. It was sunny out and I was very happy walking up to the library, which was kinda cool and dark inside. I was wearing a yellow shirt.
I happily browsed through all the books and ran into Jim Walsh and his brother, Terry, who were very happy to see me (I’ve met Jim Walsh once and his brother never). Terry was very excited to learn that I had finished writing a book and enthusiastically encouraged me to finish rewriting it so I could get it published.
That’s it. That’s the dream. It made me momentarily happy in the first few minutes when I woke up, and now I’m right back into this unending, rapid-rotation of despairboredomannoyance. It’s not fun. I’m very cranky and I don’t want to do anything besides go to a magical library.
In attempt to feel something I bought the Waxahatchee record that came out a few weeks ago because I was listening to it nonstop up until today (when I only listened to it once because I had to shotgun that Fiona Apple record right into my soul).
BLEH. I’m cranky and bored and nothing is going to make me happy and I’m sleeping really well at night again so now I can’t even nap and I don’t know what to do with myself because I sure as hell do not feel like doing the work that people are willing to give me money to do because why would I do that when I can obsess about what to make for dinner next week and I’m already so sick of thinking about making dinner for two people one of whom is not a fan of vegetables and is currently eating nachos consisting of a Chinese five spice/Sambal Oelek pulled pork, mozzarella, cheddar jack, and tortilla chips that were stale adjacent last week that I could die.