This is the third day of little or no sleep due to tossing and turning and having nightmares in which James Joyce himself comes down (or up) from wherever he's hanging out these days to stare at me with his freaky freaky bulbuous eyes and express his disappointment in me as a human being. Like this:
This is almost as bad as the dreams I had right before coming back to school, in which school was cancelled because nobody there wanted me to go or class met at a different time so that the members of said class, professor and students alike, could sit around in a circle and talk about how stupid they thought I was.
Never let it be said that I'm a nice normal girl with no issues whatsoever. I'm just a nice normal girl whose intense paranoia, these days at least, only expresses itself in the realm of the subconscious. In the form of James Joyce. With a lizard on his head. And glasses that, according to the dream-reality, could see through walls...crap, I'm not nice or normal, am I?
I suppose it could be worse.
He could have written me a letter.
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