I had a dream about you last night. You were standing on the Sun and pointing out how your feet weren’t getting burnt.
I applauded your abilities. You cried tears of joy which extinguished the Sun. Everything got totally dark.
I asked if you were still there. You said, “Yes.”
I was woken up by the ghost of author Mary Shelley.
I sat up in bed, all excited, and said that I was big fan of Frankenstein. She frowned and said, “Oh, you mean the movie.” I said, “No, the book.”
The ghost of Mary Shelly smiled and said, “Thank you, most kind sir. It has been a while since I’ve been warmed by accolades.”
I told her that I was also an author and showed her my book, Clutter Busting. She perused the first chapter.
She set the book on my bed, hung her head, and in a confessional whisper said, “Whilst I was living, my writing station was haunted by a pulpy leviathan, the contents of which were the corpses of discarded manuscripts and spiritless correspondence.”
I said, “At least it was ‘whilst.'”
I happened to meet Monday when it arrived last night at 12:00:01. It was drinking a coffee and smoking a cigarette at the same time.
I kind of snidely asked Monday if it worried that it might get ashes in the coffee. Monday said, “You’re so encouraging.”
I apologized. I said I was jealous because I used to want to be a day of the week.
I dreamt about you again last night. This time around we were in junior high, awkwardly standing next to each other in the play yard. We were the last two people waiting to be chosen by team captains for dodge ball. We decided to forgo the agonizing process and formed our own team. There was a resulting ruckus and we were expelled. We found it nice not to have to go to school anymore.
