Dear Wigleaf,

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 wake up.

Love,

Tara






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Read TL's story, "Where My Boyfriend Lives."

w i g · l e a F               11-29-09                                [home]