Last night I dreamt that I was being arrested for drunk driving. The
policeman unbuckled his belt and had me put the end of the belt in my
mouth for the alcohol breathalyzer test. I failed. They took me to jail
and fed me creamed corn and green beans and told me I couldn't drive
again for six years.
The commute to work this morning was faster than usual. I had Combos at
my desk for breakfast, took an online typing test (69 wpm, 93%
accurate) and played Bejeweled Blitz for the entire lunch hour. I spent
most of the afternoon dreaming up nasty emails I could write to people
who deserved them, and the rest of the time composing toned-down emails
to them that were probably too polite.
You know what the best kind of dreams are? The kind where you wake up
and neither feel relived they aren't real, or sad that they're over.
The kind like when you dream that your house suddenly has a bunch of
extra rooms you didn't
know it had, or an extra floor that you never did explore, and you run
around like a little kid and find all kinds of cool stuff that the
people before you left there, or you add artwork to the walls that you
never had room for other places, or you just bring in some pillows and
shut the door and curl up on the floor and go to sleep again, until you
- - -
Read TL's story, "Where My Boyfriend Lives."
w i g · l e a F