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06.22.03
Last night I dreamt I lived in a rural town surrounded by woods. A friend told me that there was a new celebrity athletic facility in the middle of the forest, and I should check it out. After a little bit of searching, there it was: a bright white structure in the middle of dense trees. Thin, manicured celebrities lounged around the premises, their eyes hidden behind opaque sunglasses. I decided to sneak in.
Trailing behind the girl who plays Lucy on 7th Heaven, I strode past Vanilla Ice and attempted to walk by Dennis Franz, who guarded the door.
"You're not famous," he yelled, grabbing my arm as I tried to pass him.
He took me to another room, where he attempted to sell me a membership to the club. Even though it conferred none of the privileges afforded to the celebrities, I'd be able to tell my friends I was a member, he said.
I declined, and woke up. I think it's time to cut back on the Access Hollywood.
Tonight, I stayed at work until 4 a.m. My deadline's noon on Mondays, which means I, a procrastinator, end up doing a majority of my week's work on Sunday.
The only thing worse than being at work in the early morning hours is leaving work in the early morning hours. A few months ago, I listened as a local news channel announced a body had been found a block away from my office. The unidentified male had been shot and then burned, the newscaster announced.
The news left me a bit concerned.
So, I went to my dad for reassurance. After hearing the story of the mystery corpse, Dad found a way to assuage my worries.
"You know, they probabaly didn't kill him there, that's just where they dumped the body," he said.
Dad's reassurance techniques could use some work.
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