Meanwhile I am unreasonably cold and my right arm has a fatigued tremble. Also, my fantasies are boring and other people's problems are far worse than mine. The boring fantasies are closer to home. I keep pushing the restart button on my inner world and the godlike zap gets weaker each time. My head is littered with false starts, dead ends, and played-out scenes, too many of them set to Madonna's "Like a Prayer," such as the one of Spike sweeping down the Hyperion staircase resplendent in black and wearing chic blind-boy shades, flanked by his personal assistant and bodyguard, all of them fresh from the corporate helicopter that just landed on the roof, while Buffy and Angel gawp in amazement from the lobby, trying to assimilate the implications of his grand entrance but feeling confused, understandably so, since they've just lost four years while trapped in an alternate universe only to return and to discover that, left to carry on the mission, Spike has armored himself in nobility and soul and founded a white-hatted global empire to battle evil, in alliance with the watcher's council and the U.S. Army, and is now a leader of men, beloved by intimates, respected by generals and watchers and kings, and of course he picked up that keen knighthood along the way, which is why Orlando Bloom addresses him as Sir William.
I am twelve.
Also tired. Must go lie on couch, drive sheep from head, stare at television screen.
