The recurring thought running through my head was: shit, now he'll *never* let me blow him again.
Later I dreamed of nuclear missiles. First I was in my doctor's office. My doctor was Hugh Grant and when I walked in he was bent over his desk snorting coke. Or so I thought. I never saw the coke, mind, but he looked guilty. While he left to fill my prescription I hunted through his office looking for the drugs. He had many lacquered boxes, but none held a stash. When he came back I was required, as a kind of pro-bono patient, to lend myself to his class of students for a lesson. Three of them x-rayed my head, and then a woman with no face escorted me out. I was struck by her facelessness--even in a dream, it was notable--and I peered at her up close and discovered she just had some kind of flesh-colored mask on, like one of those heavy knee braces you can buy. Apparently it was part of the classwork.
Then I walked outside into the dark winter street. I was on a hill, trying to cross the street with many other people. All around us were gothic stone buildings, churches and tall office buildings. Across the street was a park. Up the mildly graded hill, where there was a break in the city's roofline--the interruption of the road--the visible sky was stark and purple, apocalyptic. As we tried to cross the road, a dark-grey missile the size of a jumbo jet was driven by on a truck-bed. On the side was painted "SADDAM" in tall white letters. I had a sense of impending doom. The missiles were headed to the city's edge, down by the bay, where they'd be launched. We would come under attack. Soon we might all be dead. This could well be the end.
I walked further up the hill and tried to cross again, but another missile trundled by. All the other people had crossed by this time though, and the road was emptying. I watched: further up on a cross-street or alley a third missile was being loaded. Impressions: the wintry darkening streets, empty tree branches, the missile as big as a zeppelin being loaded onto a truck behind a row of buildings. As I stood there waiting, the truck pulled out and the driver manipulated the huge arm of an excavator toward me and scooped up some dirt. I crossed the street to get away from it, but it through the ball of dirt after me, trying to hit me. I sensed casual malicious amusement from the driver.
The world was ending and people didn't care any more.
I've been MIA because I'm tired and it's too much effort to do anything right now. Even when I try to detach myself a little from the sticky online community, I feel the pull of obligations. It's hard to just take a break. I'm glum because I'm not writing and in consequence I feel like my existence is pointless. I'm glum because my car sucks and I can't get to local bashes and no one seems to give a shit. I'm not missed. Do I even want to go anymore? At least two people there probably don't even like me from all apparent evidence, but it's been one of my few real-life fannish outlets for years and after four months of non-attendance I feel like a cave dweller. I'm glum because someone blew me off days ago and still hasn't even contacted me about it. I'm glum because I have a list and someone posts an introduction to it and no one even replies to her--and I haven't yet, but I will, but it shouldn't be just me.
And I'm glum because it's probably all karma and the second law of socio-thermodynamics, blah blah blah.
I'm not a lot of fun right now. I am in fact the anti-fun.