Saturday night do you know what I dreamed about? On a weekend, no less. A very relaxing, soothing, perfectly weather-ed weekend.
I dreamed about ironing.
All night. Shirt after shirt after shirt until my clock radio clicked on and woke me from my zenlike, allbeit imaginary, house work. And I need not remind you that this dream reached no loftier goals. No deep paranoia, no undercurrents of panic or disorientation. No defending myself against the hoardes of the unknown and the vortex from which they spring. My dream... the thing I occupied my mind with while I was asleep and could think of anything in the whole universe I wanted to think of... and I come up with ironing.
IRONING, you guys. IRONING.
Ye gods. I am old and boring. Officially.