Last night I dreamed that I wrote a book.  A whole book!  Note that I did not dream that I had written a book.  No, I dreamed that I was writing a book, and I wrote it, from start to finish, first chapter to last, plus epilogue.  Epilogue!  And it was so easy, amigos.  So easy.  Every time I thought, “Hm…this part might be tricky…how will I do it?” I solved it, kids.  I solved it.  I heeded Nike’s ad campaign of the last twenty years and I just did it!  I woke up feeling very triumphant, a feeling I confess has not completely worn off, even though it was completely unearned.  It may be the only thing keeping me alive today, as I have gotten a total of maybe eight hours of sleep in the last two days.  So I hope it lasts until my next opportunity to become unconscious.

Let me tell you how it feels to finishing writing a book, gentle readers.  AWESOME.  You would think I would be disappointed to discover that it wasn’t real, like that time I dreamed I was married to Liam Neeson, but no.  No, this is different.  And why?  Because IF I DREAM IT, I CAN BE IT (PROVIDED LIAM NEESON IS STILL SINGLE, METAPHORICALLY SPEAKING).  Who said that?  Somebody.  And if somebody said it, there must be something to it, right?  Right?  So there you go!

That exclamation mark was typed with a bona fide flourish, just so you know.  It’s like my dream has exploded out of my subconscious and is now trying to escape my body.  It is that powerful.  Or I am just really punchy right now.

I know what you’re wondering:  What was the book about, Mad?  Well, I don’t really remember that part, actually.  It seems like it was some kind of memoir, and there may have been a Hollywood celebrity or two involved (though not Liam Neeson, sadly).  Does it really matter?  I don’t know.  Does it?  Because I don’t really want to write a memoir involving Hollywood celebrities.  Or maybe I do.  What is my subconscious trying to tell me, mes amis?  What?  Other than “Stop blogging, you lazy, and write the effing book if you’re so awesome”?  The subconscious can be obscure at times.

A weird thing that happened this morning:  My alarm clock went off at 6:44 a.m.  It was not set for 6:44 a.m.  It was set for 7:05 a.m.  But here’s the weirdest part:  It went off, I opened my eyes to see that it was only 6:44 a.m., thought, “huh, that’s weird,” and without my ever touching the clock, the alarm just stopped by itself.  No, for real.  It was like the clock said, “Oops, I’m not supposed to go off yet, never mind.”  Just like that.  Like my alarm clock has intelligence–but not just intelligence: also the capacity for bizarre, random error–like it’s human or something.  It’s like my alarm clock has a soul, and it’s just as messed up as I am.  Do you think this is another message from the universe?  I don’t know.

I do know what you’re thinking:  Mad, you probably dreamed that, just like you dreamed the book thing.  No.  NO.  I swear I did not.  It was real.  It happened.  Maybe it doesn’t have cosmic significance.  Maybe it’s some random electrical  whoo-whoo that happens sometimes.  I don’t know.  I’m not Agent Scully, I’m Agent Mulder.  I look for the truth in the unexplainable.  I wrote a damn book, people.  Did I mention that?  It means something!

I’m so tired, gentle readers.  So, so very tired.  Help me.

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