let me start by saying i spent half the night dreaming i couldn't get my doc marten's off, and woke up with my stuffed tiger jammed up under my ribs (i'm still sore from it, invisible strings that pull at my abs when i move). the other half of the night's journey was doled out to you, in a fashion that was really spectacularly unfair, because the explanations you always seem to offer in my dreams are so soothing that i wake up confused and twisted around in the sheets, having to explain to myself that none of it was real.
and so all day i've been walking around with a sick stomach, though i'm sure it's 80 percent gingerbread latte and 10 percent pine-sol absorbed through my bare feet, but i know ten percent relates directly back to those dreams, which besides chatting with you and fighting my boots involved rooming with jessica and avery, a man wanting to withdraw 8 million dollars, and a serious tsunami at hampton beach which i was trying to drive away from.
and now this, because i know you'd hate it:
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