I had a dream about Richard Feynman last night. I’m really not sure why, but I think it may have had to do with a line in Space Calamari Eats Jake Gyllenhall (Okay, “Life“) in which they’re hiding from Calamari and discussing the Challenger disaster. Feynman, himself, never comes up, but I’m sure everyone remembers the story of how he was dragged off his deathbed (literally) to come put o-rings in ice water on national television.
As it turns out, my subconscious doesn’t know all that much about Feynman, and as a result, he wasn’t all that chatty, even after we (there was a definite we, but I can’t remember who the others were) left the highly scientific bags of mostly-fresh kitty litter outside his office door.
His wife was amazing, though. Thought I was good for the family (no, I can’t think of a single reason why. I mean, I was delivering used kitty litter.) and slipped me a credit card to go buy Microsoft software for their son. (Not the one they actually had. One of my co-workers.) Who was living on a shelf. (It was a very large shelf.)
That’s definitely a job-related dream.
Just marvelous. I’m delivering used kitty litter for a living.
Not that it’s a particularly damaging line of work.
But it is pretty pointless.
And there’s probably not a future in previously-owned kitty litter sales.