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Fuck interns, I need a clone. I have three essays percolating in my head: The nature of the story, how Fight Club is coming true, and my life is so surreal that someone, somewhere is painting power tools. I have little to no time to write them. But I will make a valiant effort to bore everyone silly next week.
All that aside, I'm thinking about giving up sleeping, not because I'm not tired but because I am tired of waking up having had exhaustingly detailed dreams. Last night, I got TWO of those, in fact, not that I remember much about either of them except that the one this morning was easily three hours long - I woke up at about 3:15, looked at the clock, went back to sleep, and started this dream and didn't wake up until 6:30 - and lasted through turning my alarm clock off. Also, it was something about Gerard and Frank, but I have no memory of context other than that I would really like not to have dreams about MCR. That can stop any time. The one last night, from which I was woken by a fucking text (actually, TWO texts) at 12:30 AM, stabbity stabbity fucking stabbity, was about work. And Bob Bryar. Seriously, I don't even know any more. Except that I wake up really tired after these damn dreams and they're totally useless.
Also, there's nothing whatsoever about a cover concept involving a Matrix-style approach that requires me to dream The Matrix, featuring one of my coworkers in the starring role. Seriously.
I must make dresses this weekend. Dresses FOREVER. Argh. Also, I must hope that Fresh Meat calls for a ride to the party so that I can KILL HIM AND HIDE HIS BODY.
All that aside, I'm thinking about giving up sleeping, not because I'm not tired but because I am tired of waking up having had exhaustingly detailed dreams. Last night, I got TWO of those, in fact, not that I remember much about either of them except that the one this morning was easily three hours long - I woke up at about 3:15, looked at the clock, went back to sleep, and started this dream and didn't wake up until 6:30 - and lasted through turning my alarm clock off. Also, it was something about Gerard and Frank, but I have no memory of context other than that I would really like not to have dreams about MCR. That can stop any time. The one last night, from which I was woken by a fucking text (actually, TWO texts) at 12:30 AM, stabbity stabbity fucking stabbity, was about work. And Bob Bryar. Seriously, I don't even know any more. Except that I wake up really tired after these damn dreams and they're totally useless.
Also, there's nothing whatsoever about a cover concept involving a Matrix-style approach that requires me to dream The Matrix, featuring one of my coworkers in the starring role. Seriously.
I must make dresses this weekend. Dresses FOREVER. Argh. Also, I must hope that Fresh Meat calls for a ride to the party so that I can KILL HIM AND HIDE HIS BODY.
