I woke up this morning with the back of my neck pressed firmly against the headboard of my bed. Pretty much, I’m curled up like a shrimp. This is not good for my head, muscles, or whatever the hell else gunk is in my neck, and it’s literally my oldest bad habit. It used to drive my mother nuts when I was an infant scooching around in the crib. Maybe I should get married so I have an anchor. Another job for the foot fetishist of my dreams. Here, it’s your job to sit here and hold my feet so I don’t break my neck.
That might be going overboard.
What I am getting is a Fitbit activity tracker, which… among other things… is supposed to chart sleep cycles and make me sleep better. A snazzy vibrating alarm so I can get some hardcore earplugs to block out the world. It’s last year’s model, so it doesn’t cost as much as the new ones, and it’s maybe even going to encourage exercise. You never know. It’s getting here tomorrow.
Tonight’s dream involved watching the south end of town blow up. I attribute this to a combination of the 4th of July explosions (which have now been going on for a couple of weeks) and the scene I’m writing in my novel. It was a pretty big explosion. Very explosion-y. But apparently, even my subconscious knows there are no targets of strategic or symbolic value anywhere near me. It turned out to be a series of transformers going out. Yup. In my dream, the explosion turns out to be transformers.
I am in desperate need of excitement, ladies and gentlemen.