I've been having increasingly odd dreams lately.
The other night I dreamt that I had died.
Despite the fact that I was plainly visible to mourners.
I could carry on conversations and walk around and drink coffee.
"You would drink coffee when you're dead," Pete said when I described it to him.
I was standing next to my mother and complaining loudly that not enough people had showed to my funeral.
I haven't spoken with my therapist about it yet.
I haven't referenced the dream book.
My subconcious is probably telling me to go to more parties.
But I never get invites.
Lately I keep thinking to myself:
"Jesus Christ, I'm twenty-eight."
But I'm not.
I'm twenty-seven.
Going on twenty-eight.
While my wardrobe is going on sixteen.
And my sexual prowess is going on...I'm not sure the age.
How old are you when you're in grade eight?
1 comment:
You have a therapist now? I can't picture it.
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