Wah! Mommy make it stop! Can someone please turn off this internal clock thing before I single-handedly put Westclox out of business?
Maybe I can get a prescription for sleeping pills and get addicted to them like Hollywood bimbos of the 1950s. Or my mom.
The worst part of it all was that I was actually having a fairly entertaining–if exceedingly faggoty–dream: I was working at a summer theatre camp for high school kids, and I was directing the camp’s production of Twelfth Night. All the kids who had auditioned for the play were really very good, but one of my old grad school profs (I guess he was running the camp, but I dunno) kept whining about how important it was for me to play the role of Orsino so I could “anchor” the show. (This prof, FYI, had a habit of casting himself in student productions, which irritated all of us to no end.) I adamantly refused.
So I had all these kids there and it was shaping up to be a great rehearsal and then I realized that two of my kids were kinda weird, but I couldn’t put my finger on the actual problem. Then I saw that they were actually pie plates–walking, talking pie plates, but pie plates nonetheless.
That’s when I woke up.
Sounds like the sort of scenario my boyfriend might whisper into my ear just to watch me squirm as I slept….
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