Dear Dream-Me,

    While we rarely break the consciousness wall of communication between us (unless I have a crazy story to tell about you: "Dream-Me was a rodeo clown!"), I feel I must quit this radio silence to discuss an issue with you.  As it has been years (3, in fact) since I have ever had to sit down and do math homework, I would greatly appreciate it if you could get over this increasing loop of math-related anxiety scenarios.   It's silly, when we could be spending our time on other, more interesting matters: lion-taming, flying, talking to dead authors, traveling through Oz.  You see?  Perhaps you can't do this alone, so I'm extending my hand.

Ideas:
    -a Dream-psychoanalyst or therapist (or analrapist).  Doesn't have to be Freudian.  In fact, I think I'd prefer it if he wasn't.  Jungian, yes.
    -focusing on some other anxiety.  Public nudity, perhaps.  Doesn't really annoy me that much, and sometimes pretty funny upon awaking.
    -Dream-math tutoring.  If this is the route you're going to go, you can at least get some super-professional help from famous mathematicians, like... erm... Mr. Peabody?

Please take the time to consider these and keep the dialog open.  I promise to not go all Heather Langenkamp on you.

Respectfully your Dream-Me,

Zac

Slumberland Me was a mustachioed mariachi hugging basso sexto in some backwoods bar or crossroads cantina. Don't remember the gist, just the color blue and the song had lots and lots of E minor, which reminds me... I was over at the house the other day and the fam was sorting through some old stuff and we came across this inexplicable coin with Jose Canseco's visage on it. I flipped it up in the air and called it (it being the ping's exact note, G). My brother tried to argue with me (D), but I knew. I have horrible pitch, but a talent for determining the pitch of non-musical sounds.

5 Beach Boys, 2 Devo, Let It Be, Hey Jude, Imagine, Kitty Wells, 2 Richard Thompson, 2 Jerry Harrison (Harry Jerrison?) was most of the weekend. Head a-boppin', turn table a-groovin', awkwardly dancin' in silly socks across the floor. That and reading Suetonius, which is properly scandalous. But I'm also watching "I, Claudius" which is way more successfully scandalous. John Hurt, incredible!

I'm vacating Friday through Wednesday, but I've no clue what I'm going to do with myself. Finally uke it up? Maybe go see some movies? But I know I'll probably just end up grocing, reeding, and trying to learn how to kook.

I finished Bill Bryson's The Mother Tongue the other evening, and really liked it. I'm not the best with reading nonfiction, sometimes I have no point of entry unless it's funny or bizarre to the point of hyperbole. The great thing about it was that it was a very vocal book--I don't think I've spoken so much to the black-on-white squiggles, trying out various accents or pronunciations. It should really be updated, though, as a lot of his arguments and information spring from 1986-88. It's like my family getting together to play our original edition of Trivial Pursuit, forced to preface almost every single blue question with "As of 1980..."

A couple of nights ago I dreamed I had a baby... I'm not certain it was mine, but I was protecting its little indeterminable gender. It was odd, because I'm not usually a baby or child kind of person--although rarely, I will warm up to a kid. But it felt real--maybe some strange adjunct to my infamous pregnancy dream of months ago?

I work late tomorrow. 10:00.

My grandmother's probably in surgery as I type this, but I'm pretty confident it won't be a problem.

Last night I dreamed I was pregnant. The details fuzzed considerably once I plunged back into reality, but I remember staring down at my spherical belly and attempting to answer questions of "When's the due date?" Strange. Perhaps it has something to do with all the bubbling creativity I feel like I've been having? Luckily there were no dream-hot flashes and dream-vomiting.