I didn’t sleep well last night. I had a series of turbulent dreams. The first and longest of which consisted of me and my friend Torrey living in some secluded house on a high ridge with a view of the Buffalo River. But we were the only people left; zombies had taken over the world.
The next batch took place at my house. I had committed a murder. I forget who it was that I killed, but it was an accident (this undoubtedly came from having watched Truffaut’s Shoot the Piano Player before bedtime). That storyline faded into me finding all my mail opened and scattered across my front yard, ants crawling all over my legs, and the driver’s side doors of my car being unable to lock.
Apparently I’m stressed out. My last day of work is a week from today. I’m about to experience the single biggest shift in my life since maybe moving to college. Or moving to Little Rock after college. Either way it’s something I haven’t had to do in over eight years. I don’t feel outwardly antsy; but apparently there’s a lot going on underneath my hood.
Anyone care to offer me some dime-store psychoanalysis?